Decree
by msmerlin13
Summary: When the Ministry of Magic enforces a long forgotten law, Hermione never thought she'd be assigned to two wizards—let alone her best friend and his father.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling, Bloomsbury and Warner Bros. No copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

_I can swear, I can joke  
I say what's on my mind  
If I drink, if I smoke  
I keep up with the guys  
And you see me holding up my middle finger to the world  
Fuck your ribbons and your pearls  
'Cause I'm not just a pretty girl_

* * *

If someone would have told Hermione that one day she would be sitting beside Sirius Black, snuggled under a matted wool throw on his couch as they watched Miracle on 34th Street, she would have laughed to the point of tears.

She would have called them daft and told them that would never happen, not in a million—billion years.

But then again, that was before the war. Before her life as she knew it changed.

Within the span of a few months, she went from having two loving parents and a support system whose branches stretched so far and wide that it felt endless, to being entirely alone. She'd stolen her parents' memories, given them new lives, and then had lost them forever. At the time she didn't realise how bloody foolish it was—how irreparable mind magic could be. But the truth was, if she could go back and do it over, she likely wouldn't change a thing.

After all, it_ had_ saved them.

Their safety had been the single thought that had propelled her to keep going during those awful, lonely moments on the run. They were safe, out of the country, and blissfully unaware that their daughter's life was in danger. Unaware of the stupidly foolish—albeit heroic, efforts she was taking at the tender age of eighteen.

And after the dust has settled? Well, it's the _after_ no one likes to talk about.

She'd had nowhere to go. No home to call her own, not even a bloody knut to her name. She'd always told herself _if_ they made it through the war, she'd figure it out. She'd find a way to survive, because if she was _anything_—she was a survivor.

Which is precisely how she found herself living with Sirius.

Harry was the first to suggest it. The Order had disbanded, Grimmauld Place was basically empty except for Sirius, and since Hagrid's post at Hogwarts had been reinstated, he'd been able to take Buckbeak back to the castle. And while it wasn't ideal in the beginning, Sirius had money to support her—loads of it—and was more than happy to spend his parents' hard earned coin on helping her out while she finished her schooling. It didn't hurt that she was Muggleborn, which meant all of his ancestors were likely going in their graves as his offer to help her.

She felt guilty at first. Almost as if she were taking advantage of him, but within the first couple weeks of moving in, she quickly realised Sirius needed her just as much as she needed him.

He was woefully ill-prepared to manage a house on his own. The bloody wizard could barely even fry an egg, let alone shop for proper food at the market. And thus, her little family with Sirius was born. He lead the helm as the _responsible_ big brother, and she the little sister who actually made sure shit was taken care of.

And surprisingly, it worked—even after all the times Hermione had had to remind him that clothing was _not_ optional. But that was a small sacrifice she was willing to make if it meant having a warm bed, a full tummy, and familial love once again in her life.

"Remind me again why we're watching this in August." Hermione shot a sidelong glance at Sirius as she scooped up another large handful of popcorn from the oversized bowl that sat between them.

Sirius let out a small huff, blowing some fallen black locks from his face and he turned his attention away from the black and white film to look at her. "_Because_ it's a Christmas film, and they always make you feel better."

"Yeah…during the Holidays they do…not in the middle of summer." Hermione laughed, eyes rolling as she glanced back to the small television set that they'd placed on top of one of Walburga's old cabinets they'd found in the attic earlier that year. "Look, the thought is really nice, but a bit unnecessary—"

"Yes, because every little girl just _dreams_ about her Ministry mandated marriage. How silly of me to assume that you might be in need of some cheering up this week." Sirius dramatically tipped his head back on the couch, his right hand lifting to card through his hair.

"I don't _not_ appreciate it."

"You'd just rather be doing something else?"

"I mean…I do have work—"

"Fuck work—in fact, fuck the whole Ministry, you should tell them where they can shove whatever inter-departmental memo you're working on," Sirius said, giving a crude gesture towards her work bag that sat on the small table across the room. "I still can't believe they're actually enforcing that bloody law!"

That was one thing Hermione couldn't argue with. How the _Magical Marriages Act of 1621_ was even still an active law within the modern British Ministry of Magic was actually fairly mind-blowing. From what she could gather from the Ministry's 'momentous announcement', the law had been established to circumnavigate the low magical population following the Pendle Witch Trials. It had been a time of great loss for the already small wizarding population in Great Britain, and by forcing what they called 'magical marriages', the Ministry thought they were certain to ensure a better chance of magical offspring from wizarding parents.

After its semi-successful run during the seventeen hundreds, apparently no one had ever thought to revoke the Act over the years. It appeared to have been simply forgotten about—had fallen from living memory. Until now.

"Yeah, well, here we are…" Hermione pushed herself up from the deep recline on the couch moving the popcorn bowl to the rickety coffee table. "I don't necessarily like it, but you saw how the Wizengamot shut down Michael's attempts at stopping it. He had to spend a week in a holding cell according to Harry— just for filing a stop motion."

"Oh it's not _your lot_ I'm worried about," Sirius said, lifting his hands to lace behind his head, arms bent wide. "You'll be fine…you're young enough to see through the change. It's the people in between—like those that are Bill and Charlie's age . They're already set in their ways, established even. They are going to get properly fucked over by this law. Those poor bastards."

Hermione's head snapped towards the wizard, brows furrowing. "Excuse me?" If her tone didn't make it clear, the flash of indignation in her eyes should have let him know he ought to stop while he was ahead. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Sirius glanced down the length of his nose at her, surprise colouring the smoke gray in his eyes. "Just that you'll be fine. I mean, yes, it's unconventional, and yes, probably not everyone's match is going to be perfect, but it's not as if they're going to match you with some ancient wizard. You're going to get someone like Neville, or—Harry! And honestly, how bloody bad will it be?"

"Oh I don't know, how does shagging your childhood best friend sound to you, Sirius?" Hermione's brow arched as she cocked her head to the side.

"Oh come on, Hermione. It's not going to be _that_ bad."

"Why don't you just pop on over to James' and shag him then? Since it's no big deal—in fact, I can just fire call Remus and offer to watch Teddy so you two can—"

"Okay, first off, way different!"

Hermione's jaw dropped, her eyes widening as she curled her hand into the wool throw that was over both of their laps. She snatched it off his legs in a quick flash of impeccable immaturity. If he thought she would willingly share her blanket with someone who clearly understood so little about why this was most definitely a _big deal_, he was sorely mistaken. "I can't even believe you're trying to sit there and tell me that this isn't a big deal. Sirius, I don't want to shag anyone!"

"Well maybe that's your problem," he offered, lifting his hands from the back of his neck. When Hermione swatted at his stomach, he instinctively rolled to the far end of the couch, his jersey shorts creeping up his tattoo covered thighs. "When did you get so bloody violent? Weren't you that nice little witch who got mad at me for fighting with Snape?"

"About the same time you became so bloody dense."

Sirius let out a small bark of laughter, leaning back on the arm of the couch as he kicked his legs out over the cushions. "Look—and listen. I'm not saying this isn't a _bad_ situation. Remember, I tried to make you happy with this god's awful movie." He gestured towards the television, which still held the grainy black and white images of a Christmas past. "But, what I _am_ saying is that it's not going to be the end of the world for you. It won't even be that bad for Bill. They'll find you a suitable wizard, and you'll marry and find some sort of happiness through it."

Hermione's lips pressed into a thin line, eyes still narrowed on him as she leaned back against the opposite arm of the couch, her fingers drumming an uneven rhythm on the top of her thigh. She wanted to argue and tell him he was not only wrong, but that it was rather bold of him to assume that she would just fall happily in love with some ministry assigned husband.

Moreover, she wanted to shout at him for ignoring the fact that he wasn't exempt from these bloody laws either. How the man could be acting so cavalier about his own future was honestly more bothersome that not.

She'd come to understand more and more of what made him tick as the years had crept by. He was no longer Harry's Godfather, he was like her adoptive brother, and she_ knew_ him. Sirius wasn't just brash and unrefined as a means of sticking it to pureblood tradition. No, his personality was a direct result of years of mental and physical abuse by a strong willed woman and a father who wouldn't dare defy the matriarch.

As a small child he would lash out, physically throw things, or destroy objects around the house on purpose in fits of rage that seemed too big for his little body, but Walburga could control him. She'd lock him in his room, or restrain him through the worst of it. She'd magically repair whatever he broke before turning her wand on him.

As he grew, her hold on him had slipped further and further away, and then Hogwarts happened. He'd found a home in those drafty castle walls, and for the first time in his life he felt what true love was—what it meant to be unconditionally loved no matter what mistake he made.

He'd found this love in his group of friends—a little family pieced together, born from laughter and tears. They'd started out as dorm mates, but before that first winter break stole them away to their respective families, they'd already forged a brotherhood that would last them a lifetime.

By then Walburga's methods of restraining Sirius were more dangerous than before. Unforgivables and other tortures were used liberally, stoking the subtle defiance within him.

He grew his hair long, because his mother hated it.

He started wearing Muggle clothing home, and using slang he learned from the Muggleborns.

It all seemed to enrage her further, and in turn, please Sirius to no end. His teenage years spent under her roof were an endless game of provocation and retaliation, with both his mother and him as equal participants, and he seemed to only establish the rebel persona as a means of pissing off his family. Even after his mother's death, it appeared as though Sirius would forever be stuck in this in-between stage—a perpetual man-child, one foot in adulthood, and the other in teenage flippancy.

Hermione grew to understand him and the reasons he was who he was—especially his carefree attitude towards most things in life. She learnt to ignore the childish banter and pranks; she would overlook when he forgot to tidy the kitchen for the tenth night in a row, or even when he invited over random strangers to their flat after a night out drinking. Because while he was daft at times, and thoughtless, and kind of a shite— underneath the brash exterior, he was still that nervous little boy just trying to swim through murky waters to safety.

"You know. I'm genuinely surprised you're not more upset." Hermione sighed, letting the annoyance that filled her moments earlier slip from the centre of her chest. With a deep breath she pushed it out with the air in her lungs.

It would do no good to get mad at him. It wasn't like he was responsible for the decision to enforce the arbitrary law that should have been struck from the books centuries ago.

"Well, I'm not exactly keen on the idea." Sirius explained, bending one of his legs and leaning his forearm rest against it casually. "I'm going to lose the best roommate I've ever had—if you tell Moony that, I will deny it, just so you know."

"I wouldn't dare." Hermione let a small bubble of laughter creep up her throat and she reached up, fingers quickly unwinding the elastic band that tied her curls to the top of her head and she shook them out, the tingle of her hair coming down after being piled on her hair for the day sending a small shiver down her spine. "And as flattered as I am that your only concern has about been me thus far, surely you're at least a little sore about your own involvement."

Sirius, whose eyes had drifted back to the television, snapped his attention back towards her, a quizzical arch lifting his brow. "I'm sorry—what?"

"Yeah…you know, _your_ magical marriage." Hermione clarified, tucking her curls behind her ears. "I honestly thought you would be down at the Ministry by now fighting for your forever-bachelorhood, but maybe this is growth on your part. So congratulations, you've finally succeeding in being more mature than I am."

"No, no, no." Sirius shook his head, a slow bleeding panic settling over his face as a nervous laughter flitted from his lips. "I'm exempt from the law. Too old."

"Uh…no you aren't."

"Yes, I am. The cut off is forty! And at forty-three, I'm three years overcooked, I'm afraid."

Hermione's hand slipped to her lips, trying to prevent the incredulous smile. Of course, this made so much bloody sense. He'd assumed he wasn't affected—that's why he was being so fucking supportive! He wasn't matured, or insightful, he was still a selfish brat and thought he had escaped the same fate that had befallen her.

"Oh Sirius." Hermione sighed, tsking him as she leaned forward, and set her hand on his leg, giving it a gentle pat in feigned sympathy. "You're so bloody thick headed."

"What! I'm not wrong!" The creep of anxiety lined his tone, gray eyes growing rounder by the second.

"The cut off his forty five. You're two years shy." She said with a sardonic smile, and when he launched off the couch, Hermione leaned back in laughter, watching as he nearly upended the coffee table in his hurry to rush to the kitchen to find his pile of post that was likely still sitting on the edge of the countertop unopened.

She listened to the heavy thump of his bare feet on the wooden flooring, tracking his movements through their home, and soon the sound of parchment ripping open could be heard followed by a distinct "_Muggle Fucker!"_

Ah yes. He's finally gotten around to reading the damn post.

Hermione reached out, plucking the bowl of popcorn from the askew table and she let it sit on the flat of her belly, digging into the buttery treat and pulling small handfuls in her mouth as a self-satisfied happiness washed over her. Serves him right, acting like a proper adult when he should have been commiserating with her.

She took his absence for opportunity and quickly turned off the telly, knowing full well he wasn't going to suffer through Yuletide cheer when doom and gloom was on their horizon.

With just the soft crackle of the magical fire from their hearth, Hermione sat silent, waiting for Sirius to come back into the room so they might be able to have an actual conversation about how utterly fucked this all was now that he realised he was just as affected as she was.

But when he came back in the room, his footsteps still loud and thumping with clear outrage, he had a bottle of Ogden's Finest in his hands, the cork of the spirit between his teeth as he tried to wiggle it free.

There's the reaction she was looking for!

She sat up, quickly tucking her legs against her lap as she scooted on the couch to make room for him. "Is that from your good stash?" She questioned, watching him climb over the back of the couch to settle next to her, nearly knocking the bowl of popcorn out of her lap.

The cork was yanked free from the bottle with a soft pop, and a bit of the amber liquid splashed across his cheeks, clinging to the permanent five-o-clock shadow the wizard seemed to have. He spit the cork to the floor, kicking his feet up on the coffee table as he settled back against the couch, bringing the bottle to his lips and he took a large pull. "Yeah." He hissed as he lowered the bottle, and even from her position Hermione could see the sparkle of tears that pooled in the corner of his eyes at the harsh bite of the cinnamon whiskey. "I need to get right pissed if I'm going to deal with this shite."

Hermione quickly returned the popcorn bowl to the coffee table and wiped her greasy fingers against the woolen throw before she leaned forward to snatch the bottle from his hand before he could take a second drink. A protest had already begun to slip from his lips, but died when she tipped back the bottle, matching his drink with her own.

The Fire Whiskey burned its way down the throat, setting her organs aflame as it settled low in her belly. She could feel her skin almost instantly flush, a direct result of this particular spirit. Under normal circumstances she avoided this drink as much as possible—she ended to do stupid shite on it, like trying to ride a broomstick, or cutting her bloody hair, but tonight clearly called for something of this caliber.

"I couldn't agree more." Hermione breathed her response, holding out the bottle for him to take.

A slow cheeky grin lifted Sirius lips, and something almost like pride sparkled in his eyes as he took the bottle from her. "That's my girl." He teased, tossing her a wink with a small tip of the bottle before he took another pull.

She didn't intend on drinking with Sirius on a Tuesday night—especially Fire Whiskey, but dammit to hell if that burn and the fuzzy warmth it had already given her didn't make the reality of the upcoming marriage law at least a bit more palatable.

* * *

_Song: Pretty Girl by Cheat Codes x Cade Remix_

Well, this is happening. Some of your might know, but Marriage Law is my favorite trope. It was the trope of the very first fanfiction I read ages ago and it's always held a special place in my heart. So, of course, in my infinite wisdom I thought "Hey, what if Hermione was paired with two wizards?!" which then resulted in "Oh my gods, James and Harry." So basically, this fic is the brain child of crazy ramblings and has literally consumed my life for the past two weeks. I have a decent chunk pre-written already, and as my selected nano fic, I will likely have this finished in no time (here's to hoping!). As it currently sits, expect about 37 chapters. I will release once a week (Thursdays PST).

I am lucky enough to have a literal team helping me bring this to you! Wildflowerweasley, IKEAwhatyoudidthere & Disenchantedglow are my dreamtime, and let me tell you, the men's 92 Olympic basketball team has got nothing on these three!

I can't wait to dive in and keep bringing you more of this fic—so buckle up! It's going to be wild.

until next time. xx


	2. Chapter 2

_I'm so into you, I can barely breathe  
__And all I wanna do is to fall in deep  
__But close ain't close enough 'til we cross the line  
__So name a game to play, and I'll roll the dice, hey_

* * *

Her alarm had never sounded as shrill as it had that morning. Five o'clock came far too soon, and with it a pounding headache and queasy stomach. Hermione had been hungover before, she was no virgin to the occasional overindulgence, but she had _never_ felt like this.

Her entire body ached and each burp brought forth the taste of cinnamon. If she never had Fire Whisky ever again, it would be far too fucking soon.

She pressed her forehead against her desk, willing the rolling waves that churned her empty stomach to calm down. She'd barely made it into the Ministry on time to start her shift—and she'd honestly debated with herself about even coming in at all, but she knew if she missed her meeting with Canterbury, the witch would likely hex her. The regulation for Pixie repopulation efforts in Northern Ireland was still pending after countless revisions, and they'd already rescheduled several times.

"Good Morning, Sunshine!"

Hermione startled, the cheery greeting jump-starting her heart, and with her sudden movement, a drudging wave of pain flared to life in the centre of her forehead before washing over her entire head.

Fuck, was Harry always this loud?

Lifting her head from the magically cooled desk, she cracked open a single eye to peer at her best friend who'd taken the liberty of letting himself into her office.

"Shhhh…_please_, for the love of god, just be—"

"Quiet?" Harry let her office door slam behind him, and he couldn't help but chuckle when she jumped again. He watched her hands lift to the side of her head, pushing through the less than neat curls to try and ease what he could only assume was a monsterous headache. He should be sympathetic—he'd been there before—but fuck if it wasn't fun to give her a bit of a hard time. She knew better than to drink on a work night. "Naw. Why would I do that when it's such a _looooovely_ morning?"

She was going to kill him. She'd never be convicted—murder under duress—surely the Wizengamot would understand. Hermione lifted a hand from over her ear, shushing him with her index finger to her lips as she slammed her eyes shut. She silently prayed for patience; did he understand how close she was to summoning her wand and bloody hexing him into silence? The way she felt now, she wasn't confident what spell or hex would slip from her tongue once she began flourishing her wand. If he was lucky, it wouldn't be permanent.

"Did you make it in before the sun rose? Missed a beautiful sky this morning, 'Mione. One for the books." Harry moved across her office, his dragonhide boots stomping a bit too loudly against the marble floor. From his left hand a brown paper bag hung, the corners already stained with grease, and he did his best to make sure it remained hidden behind the length of his Ministry issued black duster, just in case she decided to peak at him again. "Kind of pinkish with some blues. Reminded me of our mornings in the Forest—"

"Who told you?"

Harry paused before her desk, pressing the fingertips of his free hand against the polished wood as the corner of his mouth lifted. Ah, clever witch. Although, she always had been—hadn't she? "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Hermione leaned back in her swivel chair, the hinges creaking loudly and she tipped her head back until the base of her skull rested against the hard edge. "Was it Prudence? She wasn't very happy when I kicked her out of my office this morning."

Harry's eyes flicked across her, admiring the way her hair cascaded towards the floor. Through the artificial light coming in from her magicked window, it almost looked like it was ribboned with honey. He felt his heart speed up just a little. They'd been friends for nearly thirteen years now, and he should be over the childhood crush he had on her since he was fourteen, but he couldn't shake it—even all these years, and girlfriends, later.

When they were younger he told himself she wasn't interested and that it would ruin their friendship. By the time he might have had the courage to do something about it, well...that was the year Dumbledore died, and the worst year of his life began. His mind had been too far gone from thinking of ways he would woo her, and instead, he simply focused on making it through each day alive.

She'd stayed by his side, as did Ron. But in her presence, even with the lingering darkness that had surrounded them, there was a distant reminder of his forbidden feelings for her. He told himself later—once the dust settled, maybe he'd try.

But then she was with Ron, and well…life never seemed to allow for them to be together—at least not like that. And while he told himself her friendship was enough, there was a small part of him that didn't believe it, because deep inside, he _knew_ it would never be enough.

"Kristoff." Harry revealed his source, chuckling as he watched her face scrunch up.

"Prick." Hermione sighed, lifting her hand to pinch the bridge of her nose, using her pressure points to dull the growing pulse of her headache. Unfortunately for her, it was appearing to do very little in the way of making life bearable.

"You really ought to thank him," Harry said, lifting his hand with the bag and he set it on the centre of her desk before shuffling back to claim the wooden chair. He casually crossed his booted feet in front of him, lacing his fingers over his pockets and watched her. "Without his little tattle, I wouldn't have known to get you Sharkies."

Hermione let out a noise akin to a moan, and Harry tried valiantly to fight the flock of butterflies that burst to life in his gut. Merlin, she didn't make it easy to stay firmly planted in the friend-zone, not when his thoughts drifted to wayward curiosities about the various ways he could make her moan like that again—but for an entirely different reason.

Opening her eyes, she blinked away the white spots that blurred the edges of her vision and when she saw the familiar brown bag on her desk, she nearly cried. Sharkies! Her favorite hangover cure. It was a small diner not too far from the Ministry in Muggle London. They'd stumbled upon it years ago, when Harry had first joined his dad on the force, and ever since sinking her teeth into their bacon cheeseburger that fateful night she'd been hooked on their greasy concoctions.

"I think I might love you." She wheeled her chair under her desk, reaching for the bag and she quickly unrolled it, and she pulled out the paper wrapped burger. It smelled amazing—salty and cheesy and true perfection. Unwrapping the white wax paper around the cheeseburger, she let out another moan when she watched the cheese string away from the burger.

"Think? Well I'd assume after over a decade's worth of friendship…" His voice trailed off, but the playful tone made it all too clear he knew that her profession of love was nothing more than a hangover talking.

She lifted the burger, taking a large bite and almost instantly she could feel the magic that was the Sharkie's burger work into her system. It truly was the best hangover cure—no post-potion jitters, or the crash from an overconsumption of caffeine. Just a greasy afterglow on her fingers would remain, and possibly the need for a nice long nap.

"Hmmm… thank you," Hermione said from behind her burger as she leaned back in her squeaky chair, crossing her legs at the knee under her desk.

Harry tipped his head in recognition of her mumbled thank you, a thatch of his black fringe falling across his forehead in that 'adorable boy-next door' sort of charming way. Once upon a time she'd wondered if she might find herself fancying him, as even she could admit he was fit and had a good personality to boot. But—well, he was _Harry_. There was absolutely no way she'd ever risk ruining their friendship just because she'd heard from Padma, who heard from Pavarti, who was told from Cho Chang that Harry was quite gifted in the sack—not that she'd ever thought about him...in that way. Well, not that she would admit to anyone aside from herself.

"So was it was a solo mission, or is there some poor bloke nursing the same sort of demon you are?" Harry questioned, lifting his hand in a small rolling wave.

"Sirius," Hermione explained after swallowing down another large mouthful of burger. "Bloody _Fire Whisky_—he knows I can't drink the stuff."

"Well, clearly you can," Harry mused, his lips quirking in a half grin. "And what, pray tell, was the reason for the celebration?"

"Ahh. See, that's where you're wrong Mr Potter." Hermione gestured with her burger, wagging it at him in place of her finger before she took another quick bite. "This was no celebration, but rather a _commiseration_."

"Ahh...yes, because misery does love company."

"Especially when the company brings a hundred year aged bottle of Ogden's Finest."

"Oh, the good stuff?" Harry said before giving a low whistle. "Must have been some fucking news then."

Hermione nodded, licking the bits of cheese and grease from her fingertips before she fished around inside the brown paper bag to find a napkin. "Sirius just figured out that he hadn't aged out of the marriage law. And I was already mid-pity party so joining him just seemed logical."

A low groan slipped from Harry's lips, and his eyes blinked shut behind the thick black frames that sat high upon his nose. "Blimey, I'd almost forgotten about that bloody thing."

"Forgotten?" Hermione said through a mouthful, her brows arching high on her forehead in disbelief. Reaching out she flattened the brown paper bag and set down her half eaten breakfast so she could take a sip of the tea she'd prepared before Harry's arrival. "Harry, how could you bloody _forget_ about it? It's literally all _The Daily_ has printed for the past week."

"I stopped reading that shite years ago, 'Mione. After being called a liar pretty much my entire fifth year, I was rather uninterested in continuing my subscription," Harry said. He leaned forward, scooting to the edge of his chair and he reached out, grabbing the burger taking a quick bite, ignoring Hermione's protest as he quickly chewed. "I've been busy anyway. James—"

"Dad," Hermione corrected, leaning forward to snatch her burger back before he could take another bite. She narrowed her eyes at him in feigned agitation before tucking into it once more.

"Sorry, work brain," Harry said after swallowing down his food and he let his elbows drop against her desk as he used one of the napkins to clean the bits of grease still lingering on his fingertips. "_Dad_ has been keeping us fairly busy. Between patrol, his mandatory physical training and assisting Kingsley with his tracking assignments, I barely even have time to eat dinner, let alone think about _that_."

"Well, _that_ isn't something you're going to be able to wish away, Harry. They're supposed to be sending out our matches before the week's end. You're going to have to deal with it, regardless of how busy you are."

"I'm not trying to wish it away, 'Mione. I'm just...busy, is all." Harry sighed. Busy was putting it mildly. Harry was bloody swamped. "I'm not exactly thrilled with this whole thing, but Minister Thicknesse's just trying to do what he can for us—trying to make sure there's still a British Ministry to run down the line."

Hermione's brows nearly met on her forehead cocking her head to the side. Was Harry actually in supportive of this daft idea? There was no bloody way! This was the kind of stuff they'd fought against—inadvertently of course, but it was still there. The freedom to choose—to be unapologetically themselves without free of discrimination or harm. "Are you...supporting this?"

"What?" Harry straightened up, his hand dropping to lay flat on her desk as he shook his head quickly. "No...but it's literally my job to enforce the law, 'Mione. So regardless of my feelings, I have to appear supportive."

Hermione's nose scrunched before giving him a firm shake of her head. "Following the law and voicing opposition are not contrasting sides of the same coin, Harry. You _can_ do both, you know?" This wasn't just about his feelings on it, but the countless others affected by this barbaric excuse for a law. The Ministry could have literally done anything else—incentivise marriages with tax exemptions for example. Hell, they could do what France had begun last year and offered monthly payments from the Ministry for those that chose to have children! Literally _anything_ other than force people to get married would have been preferable.

"Yes, because being a thorn in their side would really do wonders for my career," Harry deadpanned, his lips thinning to the corner of his mouth as he lifted his brows at her expectantly. Surely she had to at least understand the position he was in. He worked for the bloody Department of Magical Law Enforcement—his unit had quite literally just been tasked as the Magical Marriage's Enforcement Unit! If he wanted to continue to move up in his career, he had to play by their rules—no matter how daft they might be.

Hermione opened her mouth, prepared to spew fire at Harry for being so complacent, but before a noise could slip from her tongue, a quick rap on her door brought back the reality that they were at work, and this conversation—although clearly needed—was not going to happen anytime soon.

"Just a moment!" Hermione called out as she scooted forward to gather the evidence of her unhealthy breakfast and she quickly balled it up and tossed it into the bin beneath her desk.

Harry rose from his chair, fingers threading the oversized buttons of his duster as he moved towards the door to let whoever was outside in.

"This conversation isn't over, Harry," Hermione whispered as she picked crumbs from her blouse. Rising from her chair, she gave her outfit a quick sweep with her wand to make sure nothing was out of sorts before she laid the vinewood on her desk.

Harry glanced over his shoulder, a small smirk already in place—that same bloody one that used to turn her insides to goo when she was in fourth year, and although now the effect was still relatively the same, she didn't feel the flush of desire she once held. After all—it was just _Harry_.

"I'm on duty for the next couple nights. So your tongue lashing will have to wait until at least Wednesday."

"Perfect. Plenty of time for me to prepare my argument," Hermione said with a quick roll of her eyes, and when the person outside her office knocked again, she let out a small frustrated sigh. "Oh Merlin, just come in!" She said, tossing her hand towards the door to open it with a bit of wandless magic. "_Impatient ars—_Oh! Hi James!"

Lingering just in the doorway, James Potter stood with his hands sucked into his fitted gray trousers, a black oxford with the DMLE logo embroidered on the pocket that could barely be seen underneath the thick black business robes that hung from his broad shoulders.

"Hullo Hermione," He replied with a hint of a laugh peppering his tone. Hazel eyes dragged across her tiny office to Harry and a thick black brow lifted at his son. "Harry...aren't you supposed to—"

"Yes, yes. Good morning to you too, _Sir_." Harry said as he began from the office, shooting his father a playful grin before he glanced over his shoulder to Hermione once more. "Wednesday? My place?"

"Inviting people over again without asking? Merlin, you really are the worst roommate," James teased, nudging his son's shoulder as Harry exited.

"Just 'Mione...and Ron probably. Not exactly a party," Harry offered in a quick explanation, although everyone in the room knew it wasn't needed. James made it no secret he liked the company—after losing Lily nearly twenty four years ago, he had never exactly moved on and if Harry hadn't been there, it would mean he'd be entirely alone.

"I'll bring dinner," Hermione told Harry, lifting her hand in a small wave as Harry's smile brightened at her words and she watched him disappear down her hallway before she allowed her eyes to drift to James. "Sorry about that—what brings you down here?"

James reached behind him, pushing her office door shut with a gentle flex of his fingers before moved to claim the seat Harry had sat in moments earlier. "We had a meeting...did you forget?" He questioned as he parted his robes, letting them slip from his shoulders before he draped them over the arm of the chair.

Hermione gulped, eyes flickering across his defined forearms that were exposed beneath his rolled up sleeves and she could vaguely make out the words as he continued to speak. James had been a constant figure in her life since age eleven, but it hadn't been until she was about twenty that the appeal of the Potter patriarch sunk in.

He was handsome, much like his son, but whereas Harry held this boyish charm—James was all man. Thick and bulky from years on the force, time had been kind to the single father. Gray peppered the sides of his thick black hair, accenting his age in the most delicious way possible, and, in the fine stubble that would coat his cheeks by the end of the day, she could see a hint of it in there as well.

Beyond the obvious physical attraction, there was also the pesky little problem of his personality. James was an absolute delight. He was smart, but not swotty—unlike herself—and genuinely funny. She could recount numerous times he'd been able to pull her from a sour mood over the years with a playful quip.

How a witch had not snatched him up after all this time might honestly be a bloody miracle, but none of it mattered. Because he was Harry's bleedin' father for starters, but moreover, he was almost two decades older than her.

"—are you even paying attention now?"

Hermione blinked through the fog of her wayward mind drifting to inappropriate thoughts of the wizard who sat casually with his ankle propped up against the opposite knee in front of her desk.

"Uh...yes!" Hermione lied, brushing her hands across her backside to flatten her skirt before she lowered into her swivel chair once more. "And no, I didn't _forget_ about our meeting. It just...slipped my mind."

"Hrmmm." James shifted in the seat, letting his weight fall onto his elbow that sat atop the wooden arm of the chair and he stroked his index finger and thumb across his chin thoughtfully. "Did that happen between polishing off that bottle with Padfoot, or this morning when you made my best patrol wizard late for his shift?"

Hermione, who had begun to dig through her files to retrieve the one she'd put together at James' request, paused. Her eyes drifted up, peaking through thick lashes at the wizard. Of course he already knew. He'd probably talked to Sirius this morning, and Merlin only knew her flatmate couldn't keep his mouth shut. "I didn't make Harry late, as a point of reference. He came here on his own free will."

"Oh I hold no illusions he did that on his own, Hermione." James laughed, eyes sparkling in the soft light. "I am simply pointing out that by working in the same building, you're distracting him."

"I'm not entirely sure what you're trying to insinuate, James, but I refuse to apologize for simply existing." Hermione slapped the file down on her desk, nudging the drawer shut with her knee before leaning back in her chair, lean arms crossing over her bosom.

"Merlin, you've always been feisty but apparently a hangover does _wonders_ for it," James mumbled as he lifted a hand to smother his growing smile, clearly trying to contain some sort of professional decorum but failing miserably. "I'm just saying you two have been friends for quite some time now and I guess I always figured you two might end up..._together._"

Together?! Hermione inhaled so sharply as the seemingly innocent implication, before falling into a coughing fit. She could feel her face flush beat red as she scrambled for her mug of tea while trying to cover her mouth with the crook of her elbow so she didn't sputter spit all over him. "I-I'm so-sorry!" she rasped, eyes watering by the time she lifted the mug to ease her spasming throat.

James' head tipped back, a belly laugh filling her tiny office, and Hermione watched as the bespeckled wizard dissolved into a fit of riotous laughter. Had he been joking? Was this all some sort of sick game? Show up to her office, looking all handsome and irresistible and insinuate that she and Harry were going to end up together—because _clearly_ being attracted to him wasn't confusing enough, James had to make mention of her long lost childhood fantasies right after oogling said fantasy's _father_. It was likely one of the most embarrassing moments of her life.

It wasn't the first time she'd heard him mention this s before though. Hell, after the war she and Harry could hardly sit next to one another without either of his uncles or James making some playful remark—and Nimue be praised if she had even thought about setting foot in his room. James had forced them to learn the contraceptive charm wandlessly the summer following Voldemort's demise despite their insistence that it was _not needed._ Nevermind the fact that they weren't actually shagging, Hermione was on the bloody year long potion!

And still, after six bloody years, it appeared as if James were no closer to moving on from his pestering as he had been before. "Are you trying to kill me?" Hermione rasped, her throat raw from her coughing fit.

"Hardly. I have far better methods if I were" the older wizard teased as he adjusted his frames up his nose before giving her a wink that made that quivering feeling in her thighs return. Merlin help her.

Hermione slammed her eyes closed, taking a slow deep breath in through her nose and out her mouth as she brought her hand to rest against her forehead so she could press her thumb between her brows, trying to relieve the growing tension. "Look—can we maybe just discuss the case?"

She could hear the rustle of him leaning forward to pluck the file from her desk, and she sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully on the thick of her lip as she cracked her eyes open just in time to watch him open the file and flick through the documents she'd collected.

Peering through her fingers, Hermione looked on in silence, thankful he didn't appear to want to press the issue further. She saw his fingers slide across the parchment, and although she knew she shouldn't—she couldn't help but wonder what they might feel like trailing down her spine, or perhaps roaming across her stomach, drawing ever slower towards her—

"These are very thorough, Hermione," James said, peeking up over the rim of his glances to flash an appreciative smile her way. "I hope you didn't spend too long compiling this."

"Oh no, not at all." Hermione dropped her hand from her face to rest on her desk. "We've been gathering information on Bernard for months now. It was no trouble."

"Well, thank you. This will help our case for the Wizengamot. How can I repay you?" Snapping the file shut, James dragged his thumb across his jawline, hazel eyes locking on hers and she tried her best to ignore the flush that began to color her cheeks. "Drinks? Lunch ...dinner?"

"No, not necessary. I was just helping a friend...but if you insist on something..." Hermione breathed as scratched lightly at the grain on her desk. "Maybe believe me and Harry when we say there's nothing happening between us?"

James was already standing, the file tucked safely under the crook of his arm and he was collecting his robes from the chair. "Hrmm. That's a tall order, Miss Granger. Wouldn't drinks be easier?"

"Yes, but that would involve me consuming more alcohol and I feel like that might be a bad choice after last night."

Another one of his laughs fill her room, and when he flashed her that Potter-smile, Hermione was nearly positive she was going to need to Floo home on her first break to change her knickers—and murder Sirius, but that was secondary to her need for fresh undergarments.

"Right...well, how about this then—I promise I won't tease you about it...until I make a toast at your wedding," James said with a lifted brow as he draped his robes over his forearm.

"James, seriously, it's not—"

"Just let an old man have this," James said, tapping the top of her desk with his index and middle fingers. "I don't get to tease either of you about much anymore now that you hardly come over. And I do miss seeing those rosy cheeks of yours."

Hermione let out a small huff, lips pursing to the corner of her mouth, but instead of firing back, she simply nodded, lifting her hand to wave him from her office. She wasn't going to push it, mainly because the longer he stayed here the harder it became to ignore the attraction she felt for him. And maybe there was a small, miniscule part of her that still liked the old joke—that maybe one day she did have a future with Harry. But _if_ that were ever to come true, she'd have to get over these confusing feelings she had for his dad.

"Thank you again, love," James moved to her door, his loafers snapping against her marble floor and when he drew open her door, she felt a blast from the cold air of the Department's floor rush in to ghost across her skin. "Sounds like I'll see you Wednesday?"

"Yeah...I'll be there," Hermione confirmed with a small nod, pushing her chair out from under her desk. She slipped back on her heels that she'd toed off earlier before rising, brushing her hands across her hips as moved towards her small bookshelf, looking for her latest project binder.

With her back turned, she couldn't see James' eyes wander to her backside, or the way his head cocked to the side, but when she glanced up at him, she could have sworn she saw a hungry look in his eye that bordered on inappropriate. but just as quickly as the smolder had appeared, it vanished when his eyes found hers.

"Great...see you then." James lifted his hand in a small wave before he slipped into her office, leaving her standing in office wondering how it was possible for one bloody family to have two drop dead gorgeous and _single _wizards. There clearly had to be some sort of issue with them, though what it was, Hermione was not entirely bloody sure because from where she stood, they both seemed too bloody perfect for her liking.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

_Song: Into You - Arianna Grande_

So you get this a couple days early! You can send thanks to the pagans for having a holiday on Thursday. I am beyond blown away by everyone's immediate outpour of support for this fic-never in my wildest dreams did I think ya'll would be into a Her2Potts fic as much as I am.

That being said I did want to address a couple things: 1) There will be absolutely no incest in this fic. 2) However...they're both going to be married to the same witch, so without explicitly spelling that out, I'm sure you can see where things might lead to in future chapters. So, if that's a hard line for you, this might not be the best fic for you to follow. I just wanted to put it out there so everyone has a clear picture of what to expect down the line.

thank you for my team of supporters helping me get chapter ready for you all. I couldn't do any of this without my village.

until next time. xx


	3. Chapter 3

_Ah, but maybe it's the way we were taught  
Or maybe it's the way we thought  
But a smile never grins without tears to begin  
__For each kiss is a cry we all lost  
__Though nothing is left to gain  
__But for the banshee that stole the grave  
__Cause we find ourselves in the same old mess  
__Singin' drunken lullabies_

* * *

The days passed quicker than Hermione anticipated. After her brief visit from James and Harry, she'd lost herself to the work week as she often did, and suddenly it was Wednesday night.

She couldn't complain as it meant she had the rest of the week off due to the bloody Magical Marriage assignments, but by the time the evening bell rang, signalling the end of her work day, what felt like a lead stone had formed in the pit of her stomach.

This was it. Her last day unbetrothed. Her last day as a _single_ woman and suddenly all the things in her life that she still had yet to do seemed to stand out more than they ever had before. She'd never visited the Library of Alexandria. She'd never swam in the Pacific Ocean or snorkeled _anywhere_. She'd never watched the sunrise over the Alps like she'd dreamt of, and never made love on a bed of rose petals. It wasn't as if she even wanted to do all of these things—as she was deathly afraid of fish after being chained underwater in her fourth year thanks to, yet again, the Ministry's infinite wisdom, and the idea of shagging over any type of plant life sounded like one might get petals in places they didn't intend, but it was the symbolism of it all. The fact that she might never get to _actually_ do any of those things seemed so unfair.

What if her match was allergic to roses? Or what if he hated traveling?

What if he didn't like books!?

These thoughts swirled in her mind and deadened what little hunger pains she did feel. Which is why, by the time she made it to Harry's after a quick stop off at her house, she arrived with a bottle of Ogden's—pilfered from Sirius' stash—and a cheap bottle of Elven wine.

This was the last night she would be unbound, and she wasn't going to waste it being sober and terrified. No, they needed a proper Stag-Do and Hen-Do.

Harry had been more than keen on the idea, and made quick work of inviting the last third of their trio over to help round out the proper celebration.

One last night of debauchery and pranks between childhood best friends.

They ordered pizza from Pasqualli's, danced to the Wizarding Wireless, ate half-baked brownies, and enjoyed each other's company as though they were back in the Gryffindor common room instead of standing on the cusp of a moment that was sure to change everything. Life had grown more complicated with each passing year since the war. Adulthood was hard, and unfair, and _bloody exhausting_. The added burden of being dubbed 'war heroes' on top of the typical stressors did not make things any easier either. It meant every fuck up any of them made was news worthy.

It meant they had to always be on the alert. Watching for the photographer to pop out from the alley, and snap them at their worst. It meant they couldn't do bloody _anything_ that normal twenty something year olds could—like go to a bar and get pissed with their mates.

But in the safety of Godric's Hollow, hidden behind wards and closed shutters, they were able to let loose. To be _normal_ without fear of being caught.

And perhaps that level of comfort—knowing they were able to cut loose with no repercussions, is why Ron fell asleep on the couch, sprawled out like a starfish in the far corner, drool dribbling from the side of his mouth and staining the plaid fabric. Well, it was either that or the fact that between the three of them, they had consumed the whole bottle of Elven wine, and were almost finished with the Ogden's Finest.

"Shhhh!" Hermione shushed Harry loudly as he dissolved into a fit of giggles, her brown eyes half lidded and hazy. Her hand was curled tightly around a highball of Fire Whisky, and as she swayed on the spot, she kept an expert level on her drink, making sure none of it sloshed over the rim. "Merlin, Harry you're going to wake him up."

Harry was doubled over, leaning against the wall with his bum, one hand clapped over his denim covered knee and the other clutching his nearly empty glass. "I-I'm trying," Harry wheezed through the unintended fit of laughter that continued to bubble up his throat. "H-He's just—H-He's drooling!"

"Shhh!" Hermione hissed once more, closing the small distance between them and slipping her hand over his lips, eyes widening to emphasize her point when Ron snored and moved on the couch in an effort to find a more comfortable position.

Harry froze, emerald eyes foggy from his own drinks, but he was still upright and awake and that was clearly better than their red-headed friend.

Reaching up, he slowly peeled Hermione's hand away from his mouth, but didn't release his grip on her hand, instead opting to lace their fingers together in a loose hold, silently relishing the way her fingers seemed to fit perfectly between his own.

"I have an ide—"

"Shhh!"

"_I have an idea!"_ Harry whispered, eyes darting between Ron and Hermione before he tipped back the rest of his drink, letting the burn of the whisky sear his throat and fan the flames that licked up his esophagus before he rose to his full height. It had been a while since he'd gotten right pissed—and admittedly years since he'd done it in the company of both Hermione and Ron. Their schedules never seemed to align anymore, what with his hours at work, Hermione's budding career, and Ron helping George run the shop. Moments like these were few and far between. Truthfully, it was probably a good thing considering that when they were together, they often fell back upon the foolish teenage tendencies they were supposed to have outgrown years ago.

Hermione let out a little squeak as Harry suddenly pulled her through the living room, socked feet thumping loudly on the hardwood floor as she struggled to keep up with him and not spill her drink. Her mind whirled as he dragged her through his family home, past the magical pictures that hung on the walls—snapshots from his idyllic childhood taunting her with their happy memories of her boyhood crush and his devilishly handsome father.

"What are you—Ah!" She narrowly missed the bannister, and a bit of whisky splashed across her wrist as the sharp movement jostled her drink around.

Harry ignored her, instead taking the stairs two at a time in his haste. Laughter born of both shock and mirth bubbled up her throat as she struggled to keep up with his larger stride. "Harry, where are you taking me? The bottle's downstairs!"

"We won't be long," Harry insisted, flashing her a cheeky grin over his shoulder that made warmth pool low in her belly. She couldn't tell if it was the whiskey, or perhaps the way his hand seemed to ignite the old flames of desire she thought she had outgrown, but when Harry pulled her into the second floor washroom, she was suddenly aware of how bloody small the room was—and how bloody good he smelt.

The hint of his aftershave clung to his skin, she could pick up the mouthwatering cologne he'd worn since Hogwarts, but there was something more beneath it. The musk that was distinctly _him._ She could remember it well, even all these years later, how he'd toss his Quidditch Robes over her during their post victory celebrations. It should have bothered her then, his sweaty robes dampening her skin, but she'd lost herself in the scent. She wore them like a badge of honour, as if the simple gesture wasn't him just being friendly—but perhaps something _more._

But those days were long past. Nearly a decade separated then and now, and she was over those foolish feelings—wasn't she?

Harry slipped his hand from hers. Her body cried out at the loss of his warmth and she nearly demanded it take it back, but instead she drank down another gulp of her whiskey, letting the burn from the spirit warm her.

"Where is it?" Harry muttered more to himself than Hermione as he began to rifle through the drawers. "I know Dad put it in here…"

Hermione leaned back against the door frame, head tilting to the side, causing a cascade of curls to frame her face. "You know, I might be able to help if you tell me what the bloody hell you're looking for."

"Hair growth serum," Harry explained as he crouched low and yanked the bottom drawer open, sending the precariously placed potions inside rolling about.

"W-What?" Hermione let out a small bark of laughter before reaching over to set her glass on the counter. "Harry, I don't really think you _need_ it. Have you looked in the mirror lately? I didn't want to say anything, but you're actually looking a bit scraggly—what with the beard and the hair."

Harry froze, his hand hovering mid-air in the drawer and he blinked through the fog of his drink. Shaking his head, he turned to look up at Hermione, still crouched at her feet. "I'm not looking for me! It's for Ron—but wait, you don't like my beard?"

"…what?"

"You said I looked scraggly."

"Oh…I mean…I just—"

Harry pushed up from the floor, nudging the drawer closed with his foot before he turned to face her, his hand stroking across the thick layer of facial hair that covered his cheeks. He never intended on growing out a beard, but when hours were already limited, shaving just seemed like a waste of time. Beyond that, the mornings were turning nippy! It was a sensible means of staying warm while out on patrol. Surely his beard wasn't that bad.

Pulling his eyes away from her, he turned to look in the mirror as he ran his thumbnail across his jawline, laying the wiry hairs flat. When he turned back toward Hermione, her mouth was open like some sort of carnival won goldfish, and she was looking at him in abject horror at her slip of tongue. "Is it bad?"

"No!" Hermione rushed out, shaking her head. "No, not at all!"

"But it's scraggly?"

"No…maybe sometimes." Hermione winced. "But it's not bad! It's just—"

Before he could even begin to process the intentional pang of hurt blooming to life in his chest from her admission, she closed the space between them and stood right at his toes. One of her hands rested on his chest, while the other rose and she carded her fingers through his hair, pushing the shaggy length to the side.

"—it's long. I don't remember it ever being this long before. And it's nice, but…your hair can be a bit wild. Especially at the end of your shifts." Hermione tried her best to explain, fingers smoothing down the tufts of black hair that never seemed to want to lay flat. Rising up on the her toes, she leaned in to fix more of wild mane. "But I like it. I do! And your beard it's very nice—thick and… manly?"

Her fingers drifted down his sideburn to brush across his facial hair, and it was when her eyes found his, that she noticed his hands were on her waist, long fingers curling around her hips, his thumbs stroking against the jut of her bones and she gulped. She was close—really close. She couldn't remember the last time she was _this_ bloody close to him. Sure, she'd given him a hug, or a peck on the cheek, but those were quick passing moments.

And this was clearly not.

"Manly?" Emerald eyes flashed to her lips, and she could smell the cinnamon spirit on his tongue. Her fingers trailed down his throat, brushing across his adam's apple on their way down to settle at his broad shoulder and all she could do was nod in response.

The tension that was buried beneath years of telling himself just friendship would be enough roared to life, and Harry was certain his heart was about to burst out of his bloody chest. She was so close, and warm, and in his bloody arms like she belonged there—like she'd _always _belonged there.

He could make out the soft sprinkling of freckles that ran across her nose and under her eyes. They were normally hidden under a light layer of make-up, but being this close, he couldn't help but notice them. And her eyes. Merlin how he'd almost forgotten their true color. Amber, like the finest glass of whisky he'd ever seen. He could lose himself in their endless pools.

When her tongue brushed across her bottom lip, a shaky breath pushing from her lungs, it appeared to be the only invitation Harry needed. One minute he was just looking at her as if he could bloody see through her and figure out the forbidden thoughts that danced through her mind, and the next his hand was in her hair and his lips on hers.

Hermione stumbled backward from the force of his kiss, nearly tripping over her own feet as she pressed into the wall for support. Her fingers curled into the soft cotton of his jumper, pulling him with her until the weight of his body pushed the air from her lungs.

Kissing Harry was probably the most foolish thing she would ever do, but fuck if it didn't _feel_ bloody right. The scrape of his nails against her scalp sent a chill down her spine, and when she pulled him impossibly close and her hips seated against his, she ate up the small noise that slipped from his throat with a slow sweep of her tongue against his.

They were drunk, that small fact the least problematic piece of this kiss. Harry was her best friend, this could potentially ruin their friendship, but when the hand at her waist slipped up her side to palm a breast through her thin cotton shirt and bra, she lied to herself and rationalised that they could figure out the logistics behind what it meant later.

His thumb dragged across her taut nipple, and she let out a small purr of approval that forced her mouth from his just so she could bloody breath. Her head tipped back against the wall, and when his lips pressed against her throat, she was certain she might become a puddle of goo on his washroom floor if he continued his ministrations.

His name was breathed in encouragement, her hands sliding across his chest, over the hill of his shoulders and up into the back of his hair, grabbing fistfuls of the inky black locks when he nipped at her pulse point.

His hips ground against hers, the friction of their denims delirium-inducing and unsatisfying all at the same time. She needed _more_! She needed to feel his skin against hers, she wanted to trace the hard planes of his body with her tongue, lap against the battle wounds from their past and learn the new ones he'd collected from his years on the force.

"Kiss me." It was a command, not a request, and she tugged on his hair to emphasis her need to feel his lips against hers once more.

Harry warred with himself, torn between nibbling and sucking on her throat to make her doll the room with those little noises, and tasting her kiss again. He pulled back, wincing at her tug on his hair, but didn't move to fulfill her command. Instead he pinched lightly at her nipple with his index and middle finger, taunting the small bud, watching as her mouth dropped open and her eyes darkened with desire.

Merlin, she was bloody beautiful—so raw, so open. He'd imagined she would be, once lost in the throes of passion, but the fantasies that played behind closed eyes when he touched himself to thoughts of her were nothing compared to the reality.

Grinding his hips into her, he made sure to rub his thickening manhood against her pelvis, seeking to provide some relief to the pulsing desire that overtook him and he nearly lost all sense of reason when he watched her eyes flutter closed at the slow motion.

"Fuck, Mione." Harry leaned, pulling her once more into a searing kiss as his hand at her breast moved up to cup her cheek, holding her poised perfectly so he could slip his tongue past her lips once more.

This was it. _Finally. _

After years of longing for her, _this_ was the moment he'd been waiting for.

His tongue brushed against hers, beginning that enticing dance they'd begun to perform only moments ago and he nipped gently on her bottom lip. Everything about this moment felt like perfection; years of longing overflowing from his soul in this singular moment. He wanted to remember this forever.

Pulling back from the kiss, Harry nudged his nose against hers, bumping his glasses slightly askew before he pulled back to drink in the sight of her. Her cheeks were flushed, sunkissed skin aflame with desire. Her lips were already swollen and pink—he wanted to spend the hours devouring them and memorise the feeling of them against his own.

She was perfect. A goddess. A modern day Aphrodite—but with more brains and less sleeping with random wizards.

As her eyelids fluttered open, revealing blown pupils and a look of hunger deeply embedded in the whisky coloured irises, he couldn't stop a smile from tugging at his lips.

With only a breath between them, he leaned back in just as the rushing sound of the Floo ignited downstairs. Her eyes went wide and it was like a bucket of ice water being dumped over the both of was the first to react, her hands unwinding from his shaggy black hair and she shoved against his chest.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," she breathed as she scrambled to straighten her rumpled clothing. She couldn't tell if it was the intoxicating effects from the whisky or Harry's kiss, but the world still felt fuzzy, and no matter how hurried her movements were the sound of approaching footsteps was faster.

"Harry?"

_James! _She gasped at the recognition of his voice, and then internally berated herself for being so bloody surprised. This was his fucking house after all—of course he'd come home! Reaching up she gathered her curls and yanked an elastic band around them to tie them on top of her head. The room was too hot—stifling really and she needed to act normal. Like nothing untoward was just happening against the very wall she was still plastered against.

"Harry? Where are you? Better yet, why is there a very pissed Weasley asleep on my—Oh...Hullo Hermione."

Hermione moved off the wall, snatching her glass from the counter and drinking down the last of the whisky as she spun to face James, purposefully avoiding looking at Harry.

"Evening James…what brings you here?" She blurted out, letting the now empty glass dangle by her hip as she blinked through the burn, praying it would ease the sudden rise of temperature in the room. If snogging your best friend wasn't awkward enough, being stuck between him and his stupidly handsome father was probably a very logical reason to commit oneself to St. Mungo's.

Perched in the bathroom doorway, James' eyes widened behind his wire frames, hazel eyes blinking as his thick brows rose to nearly his hairline. His hand that grasped the door jam tightened its hold, and the smile that had been spread across his lips at his friendly greeting faltered ever so slightly. "I…uh…"

Hermione watched his eyes flicker between her and Harry, shock and slow burning amusement colouring his expression. She let her hip fall against the washroom counter, trying her best to look as casual as possible and definitely not drunk or thoroughly snogged—which she was both in that moment.

"I…uh. I live here," James explained, his hand slowly sliding down the door frame before it moved to ruffle his untidy black hair as a slow chuckle spilled from his lips. "You two…alright in here?"

"Yeah, perfect," Harry pipped up over Hermione's shoulder, and she didn't have to look behind her to know he was likely as obvious as a fucking Niffler in Gringott's. Between the prepubescent squeak and the way he clapped his hand on her shoulder with a body wracking force like she was a fucking Quidditch team mate instead of Hermione Granger—avoider of all things physical and taxing.

"Uh huh," James said, his lips pressing together in some weak attempt at suppressing the shite eating grin that was slowly working its way across his features. "So, Weasley—" he said with a quick jut of his thumb over his shoulder, "—either of you want to explain?"

"He's tired," Hermione said with a quick nod as she shoved Harry's hand from her shoulder. "Couldn't keep his eyes open after his shift—poor guy."

"Yeah! George's really running him ragged," Harry added for good measure.

"So the bottle of wine and Ogden's have absolutely _nothing_ to do with why he's drooling all over Nana Evans' throw pillows?" James lifted a brow.

"Nope," Harry forced out through what Hermione could imagine was an awkward smile.

"Not at all," Hermione confirmed.

They were bloody adults! She was twenty five, nearly ten years older than the legal drinking age, but despite the logical approach of 'who cares if James knows they're drunk—he can't very well do much about it', she and Harry both defaulted back to that age old mantra of 'Don't get caught!'.

They'd both had near misses in the past, like the night Neville puked in the urn during fifth year summer holiday, or the time Ron fell asleep in James' bed and not in the guest room. But they'd never _actually_ been caught before. And with that little feather in their caps, it seemed silly to start now.

James clearly didn't buy it, but through the haze of the drink that still sloshed around in her belly, Hermione thought the lie might at least afford her enough time to make a hasty retreat to the guest room. "Now that you mention it, I'm feeling pretty sleepy myself. I think I'm just going to…"

Her voice trailed off as she made a break for the exit, hoping to slip past James and into the hallway where freedom from being surrounded by the two striking Potter men awaited her. But just as she began to pass James, home stretch in sight, his hand was suddenly on her wrist, and the electric snap of his magic sliding against hers elicited a gasp and she looked up at him with wide eyes.

He was tall—like really fucking tall. Easily having two inches on Harry, and Merlin his shoulders. Her mouth ran dry as she took in his hulking form, trying to find her voice that seemed to scurry further and further away from her the longer he stood there, holding her wrist, staring not just at her but _through her._ As if he could read her mind; and Merlin, if he only knew the effect he and Harry were having on her in this very moment.

It was the whisky, she tried to tell herself, nothing more than the warmth of the drink and the after effects from the Elven wine, but as she felt a warmth radiate from her core, soaking her already damp knickers, she knew it was hopeless. If James couldn't fucking read the look in her eye, he'd definitely be able to smell her.

Hazel eyes dropped from her gaze and ran over her lips. His tongue moved to press against the tip of his canine tooth as a slow smirk tugged up the corner of his lip. "I like this new look you're going for, Hermione," James said slowly, releasing her hand to gesture lazily towards his mouth. "Is this a new way to wear lipstick or…"

Hermione's brow furrowed, and she lifted her fingers to brush across her lips and when she pulled them back, a blush of pink stained the pads of her fingers. "What the…" Her voice trailed off as she dragged her eyes back to James who was only looking at her with barely contained amusement before he nodded his head toward the washroom she'd just slipped from.

Following his gesture, she peeked back inside, finally looking back at the man-boy that was her best friend and a slow sinking realisation settled like a stone in her gut. Harry looked disheveled, his always untidy hair seemed to stand on end in all the wrong places, and his clothing was just slightly askew, but those two factors alone certainly shouldn't have clued James into anything.

But the smear of lipstick that coated his kiss swollen lips certainly did.

Harry's mouth was surrounded in a light sheen of the same blush pink that marred her fingertips, and moreover, she was nearly certain she held a matching mark on her own face based on James' reaction and the way Harry's eyes seemed to bulge when he looked at her.

"_Merlin's cock_." Yanking her wrist from James' grasp, Hermione quickly dragged her palm over her mouth, trying to remove all evidence from her skin as she shouldered past him.

This wasn't happening—this _couldn't_ be fucking happening!

She was just supposed to come over for a last hurrah. One final night of freedom before the Magical Marriage stole away what little remained of her youth.

She wasn't supposed to snog her best friend, and she certainly wasn't supposed to get fucking caught!

* * *

**Author's Note:**

_Song: Drunken Lullabies by Flogging Molly_

So because this is my nano fic I'm farther ahead than intended, so I'm giving you some extra chapters here and there. :) I will still stick to my Thursday postings, but don't be surprised if you see some posted in between.

That being said: many thanks to my team helping me with this fic, but also dreamsofdramione. Sometimes you stumbled across a kindred spirit within the fandom by pure happenstance and that's absolutely what happened. Planets aligned, the old gods were thanked and all that other bullshit. She signed on to this madness (thankfully) and has helped me build this story for ya'll.

until next time. xx


	4. Chapter 4

_Moving too fast  
Moon is lighting up her skin  
She's falling, doesn't even know it yet  
Having no regrets is all that she really wants_

* * *

The aroma of bacon and eggs normally wasn't so bloody revolting, but when the smell wafted into the guest room on the second floor, Hermione nearly vomited. It was the second time within a week that she had been plagued with a hangover, and she was beginning to seriously question her life's choices as she lay in bed trying not to think about how her stomach was churning more than the tides outside Shell Cottage.

Her life had been so uncomplicated up until that bloody law was announced! Sure, one might think it was rather boring, but there was some comfort in having a routine, wasn't there? With her brain consumed with thoughts of her impending life change, Hermione kicked the thick comforter off her legs, and slipped from the bed, groaning as the thick muscles than ran the length of her legs throbbed in pain.

She pressed her hand against the taut muscle in her thigh, fingers kneading against it as she hobbled across the room to pull a pair of woolen socks from her overnight bag. She'd nearly forgotten the way the lactic acid would build in her legs over a drunken night's sleep—though to be fair, it'd been a number of years since she'd drank enough to incapacitate a Hippogriff multiple nights in the same week.

Snatching the mismatched pair of knit Weasley socks and Pain Potion from her bag, she stuffed her feet inside the cocoons of warmth, grumbling about the smell of bacon that only seemed to grow stronger the closer she got to the bedroom door before finally taking a steadying breath and tipping back the small vile to cure the tension that rippled through her.

Whoever had decided to cook was going to get an earful! An English Breakfast wasn't the proper hangover food—everyone in the bloody house knew Sharkie's was the only viable option.

A quick check in the mirror assisted her in piling her frizzy curls on top of her head, held tightly with a black elastic band. She swept her fingers underneath her eyes to wipe away the last remains of her eyeliner from the day before. Steeling her stomach with a slow breath in through her nose and out through her mouth, Hermione gave one final glance at her attire and debated the merits of putting on proper trousers, before deciding to forgo the extra effort and leave the room as is.

It wasn't as if Harry and Ron hadn't seen her in pajamas before. Neither of them would mind the fuzzy pink shorts covered in a pygmy puff print—hell, if memory served her right, it was Ron who'd actually gifted them to her. He'd likely be pleased she was actually using them—and Harry? Well Harry didn't bloody care what she wore.

It wasn't until she was halfway down the stairs, that the memories from the night before hit her and she froze mid-step, eyes widening in slow recognition. Harry! She'd fucking snogged Harry. No, not just _snogged_ but grinded against him like some kneazle in heat. And they'd been caught—by fucking James, of all people. Harry's bloody father, and a frequent visitor in her fantasies when she lay in bed with her hand tucked beneath the waistband of her knickers.

Her mind swam through a myriad of emotions—horror, embarrassment, and regret. Maybe she could run away? No one would have to know she snuck out. She could just play it off as needing to pop into work for something important. If she went now, neither Potter man would be able to lay eyes on her and she'd be able to go home, nurse away her hangover with a steady stream of Potions, fizzy drink, and a burger before opening the damn post to figure out who she'd been assigned to marry.

Of course, that plan would have worked had Ron not been behind her, trudging his way down the staircase like a fucking elephant. Each boom of his footstep rang in her ears, despite the numbing effect of her pain potion.

"Morning 'Mione," he said with a sleepy yawn and he threw his arm around her shoulders, tugging her with him in his loud descent to the first floor. "How ya feelin'?"

Hermione shot daggers up at him, her nostrils flaring as she struggled to hold back her tongue lashing. How was she feeling? Like a bloody idiot, that's how! She'd kissed her best friend on the eve of her fucking Ministry assigned betrothal, because if _that_ wasn't going to make this whole process that much more awkward, she didn't know what else would.

Instead, she opted for a forced, "Fine," as she struggled to keep up with Ron, her socked feet sliding across the polished hardwood and into the kitchen they went.

Harry was already at the table, his glasses laid out in front of him, the heels of his palms digging into his eye sockets as he hung his head in his opened hands. He wore a gray hooded jumper, and a pair of burgundy joggers that had seen much better days.

James was in front of the stove, magically directing the assembly line of plates like some sort of conductor, waving his wand between various pots of pans. "Well, good morning you two. Tea's on the kettle, coffee's in the pot and if you're brave, I can always mix up a little hair of the dog should you need something stronger," he teased with a wag of his brows over his shoulder.

"Oh gods, no," Hermione breathed the same time Ron responded with a loud clap of laughter that made her flinch. The room was brightly lit, the morning sun casting it's horrible rays across the table and Hermione damn near requested her breakfast to go not only to save herself from embarrassment but also from rousing the sleeping dragon of her numbed hangover form its cave.

"Maybe after breakfast." Ron's arm slipped from around her shoulders so he could make a beeline for the coffee machine that sat on the far side of the kitchen. "Need a cuppa, Harry?"

Harry lifted his head, squinting towards Ron as he gave a quick shake of his head and gestured toward a mug that sat to his left. "Already ahead of you, mate." Picking up his glasses from the table, he slipped them back on his face, adjusting them high on his nose so he could see properly once more before he turned to look at Hermione.

"Mione?" Ron was already mid pour, preparing his coffee with a heavy dose of cream and far too many spoonfuls of sugar for her liking.

Before she could remind Ron that not only did she not drink coffee, but the idea literally churned her stomach, Harry snorted sharply, the noise cutting her reprimand from her mind. "'Mione doesn't drink coffee, Ron. Never has."

"Oh shit. Right. Sorry." Ron gave her a sympathetic grin over the rim of his mug, blowing softly on the steaming liquid before he took a loud slurping sip. "Ahhh… just means more for me."

Hermione lingered in the entryway, her hands tugging on the hem of her faded purple jumper nervously as she looked between James and Harry, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck._

This was weird.

She should go.

She should definitely just leave.

"Tea?" Harry lifted his hand and wandlessly summoned her favorite mug to the table—the same chipped and faded one James picked up from Barcelona years prior. "I picked up Victoria Earl Gray while at Prim's earlier this week for you."

"Oh…uh, sure." Hermione dropped the hem of her jumper, letting her hand disappear beneath the long sleeves as she moved across the room, trying her best to ignore the warmth of a blush that was drifting across her cheeks as she claimed the chair beside Harry.

He prepared her cup, having long ago learned the exact way she took her tea, before he slid the mug in front of her with a small lift of his lips. "How you feeling?" he questioned in a hushed tone, emerald eyes flickering over her shoulder, as if to check to make sure his Dad wasn't eavesdropping.

"Like I won a million Galleons." She wrapped her fingers around the mug, letting the heat scorch her palms, and under normal circumstances she might have pulled away, but something about the burn helped soothe her impulse to turn tail and run from the room. "You?"

Harry picked up his mug of coffee, and with lifted brows he took a slow sip before shrugging. "Like Fire Whisky might taste worse coming back up than going down."

"You threw up?" Ron said a bit too loudly as he plopped down in the seat opposite Hermione, some of the hot coffee splashing over the rim of his mug and landing on his hand. He let out a small hiss, shaking the burning appendage quickly before he rubbed it against his chest. "You're that much of a lightweight now?"

"Says the wizard who passed out after three bloody drinks," Harry shot back, a cheeky smile replacing the coy look he'd been giving her moments ago and all she could think about for the first time in her life was how grateful she suddenly was for Ron's inability to read a situation properly.

"What? No," Ron scoffed, wrinkling his nose as he picked up his mug to take a quick sip. "I definitely had more than three."

"Not that it's a contest," James piped up as he approached the table, directing plates to settle in front of each of them with a flick of his wrist before he claimed his seat beside Ron. "But you've never been one to hold your liquor well, so I'm more inclined to believe Harry on this one, I'm afraid."

"What? You've no idea what you're on about. I can drink any of you under the table." Ron picked up his fork, angrily stabbing at the sausage on his plate and dipping it into his beans before taking a large bite.

"Weren't you the one who puked in Augusta's vase at her Yule party two years ago?" James said with a sly smirk as he picked up his toast and began to carefully rip off the crust.

"Oh shite, that's right!" Harry's eyes widened, sparkling with barely contained elation as he dropped his fork against his plate, the flatware clattering sharply.

Ron paled, sausage poised between his lips and he hastily took a bite before shaking his head. "Mrrph! _Notme_!" he mumbled through his bite, snatching one of the paper napkins off the table to blot the grease away from his lips.

"Wasn't that the same party he decided to go streaking?" Hermione chimed in, gingerly pushing her beans around her plate, not yet brave enough to take a bite. She toyed with the thought of eating while trying not to spill what little remained in her stomach after a long night of drinking and merriment.

"Oooh yes!" Harry said as he dissolved into a fit of laughter like some sort franky-first year. One hand went to ruffle his untidy hair, as the other curled around his middle to try and unhitch the stitch in his side as he laughed. "He had his shorts around his ankles and fell arse over tea kettle down the back steps."

"And got road rash on his bum!"

"Augusta offered to heal it for him—"

"—but only after she caught a look at his—"

"That's enough!" Ron slapped his hand against the table, the sharp claps only seeming to punctuate the laughter that had filled the room. His cheeks were deep crimson by this point, and although it had been two years since that fateful night, clearly not a single soul had forgotten the night Augusta Longbottom tried to take a very—_very_ drunk Ron Weasley to bed.

Hermione wasn't sure if it was fate, or some sort of divine influence, but just as James lifted his fork towards Ron with his lips parted in what she could only assume was some playful dig at the blushing wizard's expense, a sharp tap at the kitchen window brought the group back to reality.

This wasn't just a friendly breakfast between childhood friends—plus one of their dads. No, they had come to Godric's Hollow for a reason, and that reason was currently attached to the legs of four impatient looking Ministry owls on the perch outside.

The smile that had been spread across her lips slowly died, and the inklings of hunger that had begun to entice her to take a bite of her breakfast instantly vanished. She set her fork prong side down against her plate before pushing it away.

James visibly bristled, his fingers flexing around the toast and when one of the owls leaned in to tap against the window again, it seemed to pull him out of the trance that had befallen him. "I'll get them," he said after quickly clearing his throat.

Tossing his toast over his beans, he rose quickly from the table and brushed his fingers against his sweats as he moved across the kitchen towards the window. He retrieved four treats from the small mason jar that sat beside the counter before sliding open the window, making sure to give one to each of the owls before untying the post from around their legs.

As much as she wanted to focus on how handsome he looked all disheveled that morning, Hermione's eyes couldn't move from the small stack of cream envelopes that sat in his hand. She could make out the hints of the purple wax seal that marked them as official correspondence from the British Ministry of Magic.

The churning that had violently wracked her stomach returned with a vengeance, and she could taste the stomach bile tickle up her throat and splash across the back of her tongue as James set her letter down in front of her on the table.

This was it.

This unassuming little letter was going to seal her fate.

Her whole world as she knew it was going to be turned upside down, because even if—and it was a big if—she got assigned to someone she knew, someone she _liked_, it would never be the same.

This forbidden kiss she'd shared with Harry just hours before would never be able to be explored, and suddenly the regrets that plagued her mind the day before returned. But this time they weren't about places she'd never visited, or excursions she'd never gone on, but rather chances she had yet to take.

She'd never told Harry how she felt—even if those feelings were old, clearly she still harbored some sort of attraction to him. She'd never explored her sexuality fully—it had been all work and no play since the end of the war, and knowing that she might never be able to act upon any wicked curiosity felt so overwhelming.

Her hand trembled as she ran her fingers across the elegant script of her name, the depression of the paper sliding against her fingertips and she let out a shaky breath.

This was it.

This was the moment she'd been terrified of all bloody week, and now that it was here, she wasn't sure if she could actually go through with ripping open the letter to find out whose name awaited her inside.

"I guess I'll go first then," Ron spoke up, a clear cadence of uncertainty marking his tone.

Before Hermione, Harry, or James could so much as utter a syllable, he'd already broken the seal and was sliding his letter from the envelope.

Her eyes watered, unable to prevent her outpour of emotions as she watched Ron—the man who had literally been hers once upon a time—unfold his letter. Sweet, brave, foolish Ron. He'd been the butt of their jokes for years now, often teasing him about his unintentional brazenness, or spurring him on when he goofed up, but Ron was more than just their court jester. He was as much her best friend as Harry—he was like a brother.

And now, this brave, albeit sometimes daft wizard was taking the plunge and opening his letter first because Merlin only knew the terror was written so plainly across her face.

She watched, breath caught in her throat as he scanned the page, his brows moving from a low furrow to a high arch as apprehension morphed to surprise and then confusion.

"What the fuck?" Ron mumbled, blinking as he shook his head before lifting the paper closer to his face, as if trying to clarify what he'd just read. "You've got to be bloody kidding me."

"...well?" Harry tapped the edge of his letter against the tabletop impatiently. "What's it say?"

Ron looked up from the paper, cornflower blue eyes still rapidly blinking through evident confusion before he pulled his attention back to the paper once more. "I...I've been assigned to Romilda Vane."

"Well that's not bad. She was fit enough back at Hogwarts," Harry offered.

Hermione rolled her eyes, and a small scoff slipped from her lips, unable to hide her disdain for the witch still to this day. "Fit and fucking _insane_," she mumbled.

"I've been assigned to Romilda _and_ Zacharias Smith," Ron continued as he laid her paper on the table before pushing it to the center for one of them to grab.

"_What?!_" Hermione reached for the parchment, forgoing opening her own letter, but James was quicker. Her hand slapped against the table, just the tips of her fingers touching the paper as James slid it towards himself.

Ron pushed up from the table, his hands carding through cropped red locks. "It...It said Romilda and Zacharias and something about getting bound within two weeks and something about Azkaban and..._fuck, Zacharias?!"_

"But the law doesn't require you to be married to multiple partners." Hermione murmured more to herself than Ron as she pushed up from the table and began to move quickly around it so she could peer over James' shoulder. "This doesn't even make sense. Maybe you misread."

"I know what I fucking read, Mione!" Ron snapped, panic beginning to invade all sense of his reason as he paced the length of the table.

Hermione knew better than to snap back, she was well versed in that Weasley panic state over years of friendship. "Okay, just calm down. Maybe it's a typo. We can pop down to the Ministry and get this all sorted out."

"I...don't think this is a typo, Hermione," James said, teeth chewing on his bottom lip as he lifted his eyes and turned in his chair to glance over his shoulder towards her. "There's a specific mention in here about how Magical Marriages are exempt from polygamy laws."

"They want me to marry a bloke! How—But I—Oh Merlin, do they expect me to _shag_ him!?"

"_What?!_ No...No that must be wrong." Hermione reached out, snatching the letter from James' hand, eyes already flitting across the crisp print on the parchment. This was absolutely daft. There was no way this could be legal—it went against their own laws on marriage! But as she read the passage again, trying to find some sort of glaring error that would indicate it was a mistake, a sinking feeling began to take hold.

There was no mistake.

Everything was in order.

Not even a bloody spelling error in the entire letter. The stipulations of the archaic law, time frames in which they must comply, and of course, the rather terse passage about what would happen if they choose to disobey the Decree.

The Ministry, in their infinite wisdom, had decided to marry Romilda off to not just one, but two bloody wizards.

She could barely begin to associate what it would mean for herself when the ripping sound of parchment pulled her attention from the letter and across the table to Harry.

She watched as his eyes flicked across the letter and the thick muscle in his jaw flexed as he ground his teeth.

"Harry, I—" James reached out, laying his hand on his son's arm.

Harry moved quickly, shoving James' touch away from him as he balled up the letter, rising from the kitchen table with such force it knocked the wooden chair he'd claimed earlier on its side. He didn't bother to apologise, nor explain his reaction. Instead he threw the crumpled parchment against the table, letting it bounce away from him in an uncontrolled burst of anger.

"Harry!" Hermione called after him to no avail, as the wizard made a beeline for the living room, clearly intent on fleeing from them both. She set Ron's letter down on the table, reaching for the balled parchment with growing concern.

Had Harry received two names as well? How bad could it really be? He was a bloody war hero, they wouldn't assign him just _anyone_ would they?

Little was known about the formula they were using to assign Magical Marriages, but from what she could gather, it not only involved some rather intricate Arithmancy, but also a bit of Card Reading from the Divination team within the Department of Mysteries.

Her fingers shook as she smoothed out the crumpled parchment against the table, eyes scanning the wrinkled words, moving quickly past the canned message that all of their letters were likely to contain to the elegant script that listed his matches.

_Hermione Granger_

_James Potter_

The lead stone that had built in her stomach dropped, and it was as if all the air in her lungs vacated her body. How could they—but, this didn't make any fucking sense! This _had_ to be a mistake.

The rushing sound of her blood dulled the noise in the room around her as she stared at the names written on the paper. A loud crash of exploding glass echoed around them as she dragged her eyes off the parchment and over to James, who was now standing, reading his own letter with a look of shock that must have matched her own.

Between them, the glassware that held their morning cups of tea, coffee, and pumpkin juice were in pieces, a current of the combined liquids spilling over the edges of the table and splashing against her sock clad feet.

She should say something—anything, but it was as if she was unable to do anything beyond stare, frozen under the weight of what her and James' name on that paper meant.

She had until the week's end to marry not only her best friend, but _his_ _father_ as well.

As uncomplicated as her life had been up until that moment, she now faced a future that was undoubtedly going to be messy.

James cleared his throat, hazel eyes lifting from his letter and his face paled. A maelstrom of unreadable emotions brewed in his eyes, and Hermione almost gave in to the urge to vomit.

"I…I..uh...I—" Hermione stammered, her voice cracking as she began to back away from the table, nearly tripping over her own feet as she scrambled to put distance between her and James.

"Should go check on Harry," James finished for her with a quick shake of his head. His hand rose, fingers carding through untidy black locks. "I'll…stay with Weasley!" He turned around and moved over to Ron, who was standing at the kitchen sink, fumbling with the tap while clutching a mug he'd swiped from the sink.

"Right!" Hermione hastily agreed before she spun on her heel and moved out of the kitchen, the wet slap from her soaked soaks marking her exit.

She knew James was giving her an out, and under normal circumstances, she might have given him a look to indicate she understood, but all she could focus on was putting distance between herself and the Potter men that were clearly destined to be bound to her in more than just friendship.

* * *

_Song: Night Changes by One Direction_

And so it begins! Muahaha. But in all seriousness, shits about to get wild REAL quick.

until next time. xx


	5. Chapter 5

_Voices in your body coming through on the radio  
__The union of the snake is on the climb  
__Moving up it's gonna race it's gonna break  
__Through the borderline_

* * *

"We live through two bloody wars and this is the world we fought for." Sirius sighed, tapping his index and middle finger against the latest edition of the Daily Prophet, his hand obscuring the headline that had plagued James' mind nearly all day.

_Magical Marriages: A Look into the Future of Britain Wizarding Community._

"I don't think anyone could have predicted this would be the outcome—least of all, any of us." James scoffed before bringing his pint of ale to his lips, taking a large mouthful of the frothy beer.

Work, as predicted, had been hellacious after the matching letters were sent. Extra patrols had to be assigned to the newly minted Magical Marriages Unit, which meant he'd had to ask his team to work overtime. While typically this wouldn't have been the end of the world for the younger, unattached members of his units, they were also dealing with the ramifications of the unexpected announcement of multi-partner marriages. This, of course, meant he had to rely on his more seasoned Aurors to man the desk and put the occasional upset witch or wizard back in line.

"Did you read this shite?" Sirius pushed the periodical towards James before picking up his nearly empty glass of ale. With a covert lift of his glass and a sidelong glance towards Tom, he motioned for another round before quickly tipping back the contents.

"Haven't had a chance yet. Worth a peak?" James reached out and picked up the newspaper. Unfolding it with a small snap of his wrist, his hazel eyes began to scan through the article that sat underneath a photograph of a rather happy looking Minister Thickness beside Jorginsen Finstrom, Chief Diviner waving at the camera.

Sirius scoffed before leaning back on the high back barstool, his arms crossing over his chest. "I skimmed it. There's a bit of an explanation as to why witches got matched with two wizards, and insistence that they're not forcing wizards to turn bent for the sake of this bloody law, but other than that, it's a load of Hippogriff shite," Sirius grumbled, waving his hand with an air of disbelief. "Hermione was a bit upset about the background bit—something about the Pendle Witch Trials and misinterpretation of the census registry. To be honest, I kind of stopped listening to her ranting by the time we hit the hour mark."

James hummed in recognition, tongue pressing to the roof of his mouth at the mention of the witch, and he tossed the paper on the bartop before rubbing a hand across his face. "Right," he breathed, trying not to let his mind wander to thoughts of his betrothed.

He couldn't blame her for being upset. It wasn't as if this was traditional, nor expected. She was an eligible witch, someone who, under normal circumstances, would have no problem finding a partner and settling down in a short couple years—and certainly not with someone like…well, him.

He was nearly twenty years her senior, and had been there to help guide her through a tricky adolescence, as well as a war she was far too young to have fought. He'd watched her blossom from the gangly child into a young woman, and he certainly wasn't going to be forced to, not only bed her, but share her with his fucking son.

"Who'd you get matched with anyway?" James asked, hoping to steer the conversation away from the witch. When Tom approached with two fresh pints, James reached into the front pocket of his black trousers and pulled out a polished sickle to set beside his empty glass, before nodding his head in thanks to the barkeep.

"Ha! I thought I'd already told you." Sirius quickly picked up his ale, taking a large sip before he turned in his chair to face his oldest friend, lips pursed to the corner of his mouth in an expression torn believe disbelief and annoyance. "Baby Weasley and Moony."

James coughed into his ale, beer splattering across his cheeks and trousers as he quickly set down his glass with a heavy thunk on the bar. "_Ginny?_" James gasped over his coughs.

"Yes."

"As in…Harry's ex?"

"The very one."

"And Moony, as in—"

"Do you actually _know_ any other Moony's?" Sirius deadpanned, lifting a black brow at him skeptically.

James let out a quick laugh, his hand lifting from his pint glass to ruffle his messy hair with a slow quirked smile. "I suppose not, huh?" His eyes softened on his friend sympathetically. "So…Moony and Ginny—blimey, they've really managed to muck this shite up, haven't they?"

"To borrow a phrase from my least favorite potions professor—" Sirius cleared his throat as he straightened his spine, adjusting his gaze so he looked down the length of his nose at James. "_Obvi-ously."_

"But, let's look on the bright side—being married to Moony is a hell of a lot better than your own kid and his childhood crush." James offered with a tilt of his head before he looked down into the amber ale that swirled in his glass. James highly doubted Sirius' aversion to the marriage had _anything_ to do with Remus—the pair had literally danced around their mutual attraction for as long as he could remember, and maybe this was just the thing they needed to finally admit their own feelings and be happy once and for all.

"Well, let's make one big correction. I'm not marrying Moony. _We_ are marrying Arthur's only daughter—which he was more than happy to remind me of via owl this morning," Sirius said with a pointed finger. "But let's not pretend at least a small part of you isn't a little pleased with your match. Sure, the whole son bit is kind of odd, but you've fancied Hermione for fucking years now."

James' head snapped up, eyes wide in shock—but not because what Sirius said wasn't the truth. Quite the opposite, in fact, but he hadn't expected his friend to know. James' interest in the witch had begun shortly after the war during that small period of time she'd slept in their guest room before moving into Grimmauld Place. He'd long thought her clever, and charming. It had been easy to see why Harry fell for the witch, but it wasn't until the dust settled after the war that he'd finally gotten a good look at the woman she'd become while they all debt with the aftermath.

At first, he'd told himself it was nothing more than the mild curiosities of an aging man. She was young, fit, and likely represented a part of his life he'd never get to relive. She was nearly the same age that Lily had been when she passed, and although the witches looked absolutely nothing alike, he found a common thread between their personalities. They were both so intelligent—wise beyond their years, and both possessed a passion that nothing could stamp out.

It also didn't help that she wore those tiny cotton shorts around his house, and sometimes—if he was real lucky, he'd catch a glimpse of her traipsing up to the guestroom in that cream coloured camisole without a bra. Though he'd never dare to admit it, that very same cami had made many appearances in the late night fantasies that often resulted in his hand venturing beneath his pajama bottoms to relieve the throb from his cock.

It was those little moments, those hints of supple skin that fueled his desire for her at first. But, much to his surprise, his interest continued to grow. His need to be around her, even just in her orbit, was almost impossible to ignore. Soon he was finding reasons to visit her floor at the Ministry or popping over to Sirius' unannounced; because the truth was, James didn't just have a bloody crush—he was absolutely head over heels for her.

"I-I…Wh-whaat?" James' voice cracked, his fingers flexing around his pint glass and he quickly shook his head. "What are you—don't be daft, Padfoot. I don't _fancy_ Hermione," James lied, his voice ticking up in that telltale sign of his deceit. He'd always been a shite liar, the only one of the Marauders who would give them away every bloody time. Which is probably why Sirius and Peter had always insisted upon doing all the talking whenever Minerva caught them.

"Oh yeah?" Sirius snorted before taking another sip of his beer. "So, all those late night pop overs were for my benefit?"

"I'd just gotten off shift and figured you might enjoy some company. You've always been a night owl."

"And…all the times you brought Chinese food?"

"I never heard you complain when you ate it."

"Well, it's free dinner so, _of course_ I ate it, but you always made sure to buy shrimp fried rice even though we both know is absolute rubbish." Sirius adjusted in his chair, slowly crossing his legs at the knee.

"Yes, because being considerate about someone else is clearly grounds for having a crush." James sighed, lifting his hand in a small wave. "You're obviously grasping at—"

"Prongs—James. Seriously, it's alright." Sirius reached out, laying a hand on his forearm, a playful glint in his eye. "She's a grown woman, and if you're interested in her, no one would think differently—least of all me. We all see the way you look at her…fuck, I honestly haven't seen you look at anyone that way since…"

He didn't need to finish the sentence for James to know just who he meant. Even two decades later, the premature loss of his wife was still a bitter potion to swallow. She had been his everything since as far back as he could remember, not a single memory of his time spent at Hogwarts did not involve his pining for his former spouse. She had been his everything. His moon, stars, and the heavens above. She'd been his first love, snog, and even shag. She loved him despite his flaws and even found them endearing. Hell, she'd been the reason he became an Auror!

When he thought he wouldn't pass those critical tests, she'd encouraged him, and even helped him study. She'd believed in him when no one else had. Lily Evans had not just made him a man—but rather a better man.

They had been so young when they married, so eager to rush headlong into forever without a second thought. But they'd been so in love. There had been little doubt that marrying her was the right thing to do—even if she hadn't been pregnant with Harry, he would have asked her a million times over. And the truth was, if Lily were alive today, James held little doubt that he would still be married to her.

But fate was a fickle and cruel being. Lily was stolen from him on Halloween night over two decades ago, her life snuffed out over a fucking prophecy that almost claimed his only son's life a generation later.

In the beginning, James fought to find a reason the universe would see fit to make him Harry's only living parent. Lily had been so much more attentive, so much bloody better at being a parent than him. The guilt ate at him for weeks—he should have been the one to perish by Voldemort's hand, not her. But the feelings of self-loathing didn't linger long because while it was cruel for the fates to have stolen his wife from him, they'd also taken away Harry's mother, and he was going to be damned if they stole his father as well.

Harry didn't need a father consumed by despair. He was young, still learning to walk and talk—still figuring out the world. He needed a father to hold his hand along the way.

So James did the next best thing. He poured himself into being the best dad he could be—with Sirius and Remus' help, of course. He wasn't able to do it by himself, there was no bloody way he would have ever managed through that first year alone without their help. They provided a loving, supportive, and encouraging environment for Harry to grow up and reinforced the long-standing pact between them. This was the family they chose—their _true_ family. They were brothers forged through bonds pledged over a lifetime of happy memories, and with none of them having any living family left, they created their own.

James made sure to honour Lily in as many ways as he could during Harry's formative years. Harry attended Muggle primary school because he knew Lily would have insisted upon it. He took him to visit Nana and Papa Evans as often as his schedule allowed, and when they passed away, they attended the service despite Petunia and Vernon's insistence they weren't welcome.

He left her pictures on the wall until Harry was old enough to request they be replaced with photos of the life they'd built with his Uncles. So, he tucked them away in a box, putting most of them in the attic save for his favorites, which he hung beside their bookshelf in his study—after all, the library had always been her favorite place.

James made sure Lily was not a forgotten thought in Harry's life, instead including mention of her as often as allowed, but over the years, the need to remind Harry what an amazing witch his mum had been faded. And like time often did, the old wounds healed.

It wasn't until the summer Harry turned nine that he realised the love he felt for his deceased wife wasn't the same as it once was. He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment it happened, but one morning he woke up and realised that consuming, spellbinding love that had befallen him while she was alive was nothing more than a fond memory to look back on.

He hadn't worn his wedding band since Harry's third birthday, but the loss of the warm and fuzzy feeling was new. A startling revelation. One that made him lean upon Remus and Sirius as he waded through the murky waters of love lost.

He'd never dated—much to Remus' chagrin, and had only gone out to pubs on rare occasions with Sirius in pursuit of more carnal delights once Harry had been enrolled at Hogwarts. He never wanted to bring a new woman home, even after his devotion for Lily faded. It wasn't fair to have people pop in and out of Harry's life—he still needed stability. But it was shortly after Harry's first year that all thoughts of witches disappeared.

He'd been so focused on making the best life for his son that he had nearly forgotten the reason behind Lily's death: Voldemort. When the wizard popped up after years of presumed death only to try and claim his son's life again, James pushed back the feelings, tucking them into a neat little box in his heart, and poured every ounce of himself into trying to stop the bastard and keep Harry alive.

Which is why when the war ended, and those fluttering feelings of new romance that had long been forgotten returned, he tried to hide from it. But there was no denying the way Hermione made him feel. Every time she was in the room, it was as if the earth stood still, and if she smiled at him, a burst of bees buzzed in his stomach. Merlin forbid if the young witch touched him, gods, he felt as if he could literally soar.

But she was strictly off limits.

She was Harry's best friend, and crush to boot! James would never stand in the way of that. He'd had his chance at love, and it wasn't fair to steal that away from his son.

But clearly, fate, that capricious, heartless bitch that she was, showed up and made the decision for him.

"_Fuck_," James breathed, lifting his hands once more to rub his face, nails scratching lightly against the light layer of facial hair the peppered his cheeks as he looked back over to Sirius. "How the hell am I going to do this, Padfoot?"

Sirius patted his arm, timing the motion with a small shake of his head, before he pulled back to pick up his drink. Taking another slow sip, he let his eyes drift over to Tom and he motioned for another round. "Well, I know it's been a bit for you," Sirius began, setting his drink down so he could fish out the coin needed to pay for their drinks, "but I'd recommend you start with removing her clothes. Though, to be fair, I personally find it pretty hot when you leave at least the witch's knickers on."

* * *

It had been forty-eight hours since they'd received their assignment from the Ministry, and Hermione had yet to so much as speak to Harry since he'd stormed from the kitchen. She took his locked bedroom door as an opportunity to flee the Potter home and collect her thoughts so she could face him later without feeling woefully unprepared.

But that was nearly two days ago now, and the forced silence was almost worse than seeing him leave the kitchen in a rage. It wasn't as if she didn't understand his need for space—she'd clearly felt it too, but she also knew that they were just avoiding the inevitable.

The law was perfectly clear, she was required to marry both him and James. And moreover, there was a stipulation in the subsequent by-laws that not only required her to bind herself to both of them by the end of the week, but she was also required to consummate their marriage the night of their binding—and every seven days thereafter.

Ever the logical witch, Hermione spent the better part of her two day break from Harry's company researching _The Magical Marriage Act of 1621_—trying to find any loophole that might be able to stop this madness before it began. Unfortunately, it was airtight. Whatever legal team the Minister had put together to draft the regulation in support of the ancient law was top notch—they clearly knew what they were doing.

While most of the original wording remained intact, a few key changes were made before it was announced. In fact, the only saving grace about the reemergence of the law was the fact that birthing requirements had been stricken during the first round of modern revisions. Because while the Ministry clearly lacked any sort of fucking heart, they at least had the brains not to force unwanted children on people.

During her research, Hermione was also able to find the context for the two wizard to one witch matching—though the reason didn't ease any of her fury. Following the Pendle Witch Trials of the 1600's, there had been a sharp and steady decline in female magical births—at least those born from magical parentage.

Healers nor Diviners could explain the sudden change in the birthright, but suddenly there was an entire generation where wizards outnumbered witches nearly three to one in the British Isles. As a result, the amount of female Muggleborns began to increase to the tune of nearly eight percent of the Muggleborn population being registered with the Ministry.

The only explanation they could find at the time was magical parents suppressing passing on the female gene—as if forcing their offspring to only carry the male genetic code while in utero to prevent future generations of witch hunts.

But, from what Hermione gathered while sifting through pages upon pages of census data, the imbalance in the population never corrected itself—even all these years later. From her analysis, there was actually a near three to one ratio of wizards to witches in Great Britain alone, and from a report she'd found written in the early eighties, it appeared as if the Magical Congress of the United States of America was actually worse off than they were, with numbers nearing five to one.

While the semblance of an explanation did little to comfort her, it allowed her to come to terms with the idea of marrying both Harry and James. The truth was, she could have been paired with a great number of eligible wizards, some of whom would be less than happy to have a war hero for a wife, but she had been paired with people she knew—people she already loved and cared for. And yes, technically the love she felt for them was _not_ the same, it was at least a small comfort during this whole mess.

After a quick owl exchange with James, she arranged a date of sorts for them to meet up and discuss the logistics of how this was all going to work out. She would have to move into Godric's Hollow, so figuring out which room would be hers still needed to be decided. She had Crookshanks still, and she knew James wasn't particularly fond of the half-kneazle. Then, of course, there was also that silly little detail about selecting a wedding date.

Thankfully, James had been understanding, and rather mature about the topic—even going as far as to suggest she meet with Harry prior to their date so they could figure out what worked best for the two of them. With that arrangement made, Hermione knew there was only one person left that she needed to talk to.

_Harry_.

So she owled him.

And fire called him.

And showed up to his bloody office, but all her efforts were for naught. He'd been conveniently busy with patrol, which evidently meant he was near impossible to get ahold of.

She finally resulted to bribing Seamus with a bottle of MacKenzie's Meade as a means of reaching the elusive wizard to demand his presence at her flat that very night. Her letter to him was succinct and curt—and she might have pulled the age old 'you made me watch you die' card to get him to concede, but in the end, Harry agreed to show.

Which is how she found herself sitting on her couch after changing for the third bloody time that evening, internally debating if the pale blush blouse she'd selected was nice enough to have a conversation about her future with her best friend/soon to be husband. She didn't want to look too dressed up, but she also didn't want to appear as if she didn't put at least a little bit of an effort in. She needed the perfect balance between '_Oh, this old thing?'_ and _'I'm so glad you noticed._'

This, of course, only added to the overflowing cauldron of confusion in her mind, because two days prior, she could have worn a ratty shirt and sweats without a second thought, but now that Harry was...her fiancé, it felt like she needed to at least put in _some_ effort.

Her hands dropped to her thighs, fingers nervously smoothing over the seam of her denim trousers that ran the inside of her leg. This was supposed to be casual, just a talk between old friends, nothing terribly nerve wracking or exciting, but for some reason, there was a flock of butterflies rioting in her stomach, driving up her nerves until she couldn't convince herself that this conversation was just the beginning of something _more._

When the rushing sound of her Floo activated, Hermione jumped and knocked her foot against her coffee table as she scrambled to stand. "Fuck," she hissed, reaching down to quickly put the coffee table back in its place before rising, hands resting against the flat of her abdomen.

Harry stepped onto her hearth, his shaggy black hair damp, wisps clinging to his forehead. He'd obviously showered before his arrival based on the clean scent of his shampoo that wafted over to her. He had changed from his patrol clothing to something more casual—far more casual that the blouse and crisp denim trousers she'd selected. A pair of gray sweatpants sat low of his hips, the tie hanging loosely from the thick waistband, and a plain white short sleeve shirt covered his torso. Had he been wearing house slippers instead of trainers, Hermione honestly would have assumed he was about to crawl in bed for the night.

Her eyes flickered up his form, and she was unable to help but notice the stretch of the cotton over his defined chest and biceps. _Merlin, help her_. How was she supposed to make it through a bloody conversation when he looked so fit? Her eyes continued up his body, pulling away from his broad chest to land on his face and she blinked in surprise.

"You shaved," she blurted out, her brow furrowing.

Harry's hand rose, fingers brushing across his smooth jaw before he reached up to ruffle his damp locks. "Uh...yeah...I did," he replied sheepishly, the corner of his lips lifting in just the hint of a smile. "So is it bad? You said I was looking—"

"No!" Hermione interrupted and shook her head quickly, curls bouncing with the sharp motion. "No, not at all—I just...I didn't expect it, is all. I'd gotten used to seeing you with...you know?" Lifting her hand, she gave a quick gesture towards her cheeks.

"I mean if you'd rather, I can always grow it back out…"

Hermione let out a nervous laugh, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. If she'd rather? Of course Harry would be kind enough to consider her opinion, but Merlin, it didn't make it any easier—him being so sweet, so charming. While she was over here worried about herself, Harry had obviously spent their two day hiatus thinking about her. "I like you with or without it...anyway you'd prefer is fine with me."

His cheeks flushed crimson in response and the butterflies began to flutter up her throat, tickling her esophagus. It was all she could do not to giggle like a gods damned school girl in his presence.

She rubbed her palms against her hips, purposely pulling her gaze away from him as she looked around the living room awkwardly before motioning to the couch beside her. "Would you like to take a seat?"

"Uh…sure." Harry nodded, moving out from the hearth, his trainers squeaking softly on the hardwood floor as he moved to claim the middle seat of the couch. He leaned back, snatching one of the numerous throw pillows and he tucked it into his lap. "So, your note said you wanted to talk?"

Hermione sat beside him, pulling her left leg up so her foot could rest against the couch cushion as she turned so her back was against the arm. "I mean, we kind of have to at some point, don't we?" she teased. Dropping her eyes to her lap, she picked at the chipped purple nail polish that covered her fingernails.

"I don't know. Figured we could try that whole silent marriage thing."

Hermione let out a breathy laugh before glancing up at him through thick lashes. She could make out just the hint of mischief in his eyes, and as if on cue, some of the nervousness that had ebbed into her soul began to slip away. This didn't have to be awkward or forced. This was Harry–the same boy she'd been friends with for two decades! She could talk with him about literally anything. While yes, ideally she should have found herself engaged to someone after dating them for a while—maybe this wouldn't be _so_ bad.

Harry was kind, and gentle, and probably the sweetest man she'd ever known. And James? Well, Harry obviously had to learn those traits from someone, hadn't he?

"You'd only be so lucky," Hermione returned with a small quirk of her lips. "I thought we ought to talk about...the letters and, you know…" Her voice trailed off as she gestured between them before reaching up to nervously tuck a curl behind her ear.

"And?" Harry lifted a brow, his head cocking slightly as his leg began to bounce.

"Uh...the...um. The kiss."

"Oh...that," Harry breathed, emerald eyes dropping to his lap, as he picked at the threadbare seam that ran the side of the old throw and he let out a deep exhale. "I was hoping you might not remember that."

"Oh." Hermione let out her single syllable response as her brows lifted. She blinked through the shock of his rather uncouth revelation, trying her best to decipher what he could possibly mean by that. Did he regret it? Was she _that_ bad at snogging? Admittedly, it had been a number of years since she'd properly snogged anyone, but she'd certainly never received complaints before.

"Wait, that came out wrong," Harry rushed out, grimacing as he ran his fingers through his hair, twisting the unruly locks into nervous peaks. "'Mione, it's just—fuck, I'm so _bad_ at this." Harry sighed, pulling his thick black frames from his face so he could pinch the bridge of his nose as he took in a sharp breath. "'Mione, I like you. Okay?"

Well, that much was fucking obvious, they were friends, after all. A soft breath escaped her lips and she reached out to lay her hand on his knee. "I know…I like you too, Harry. You're my best friend," she said encouragingly as she gave his knee a gentle squeeze.

"No, I don't think you understand...I…I _like_ you." He fumbled with his frames, slipping them back onto his face before he dropped his hand to rest over hers. "I have for a long time and when I saw your name on that letter, I was so bloody excited because…because it meant we got to finally be together. I didn't have to keep hiding how I felt anymore...but—" His eyes took on an almost faraway look, and he let his gaze drop to his lap, his fingers brushing across the thin skin on the back of her hand, tracing the small valleys between her knuckles with the rough pads of his fingers. "But Dad's name was there...and...and _I _don't get to just have you."

He _liked_ her.

Not just like friends—but _more_. Her mind whirled through the years of their friendship, replaying moments as she stared at him in disbelief. How long had he felt this way? Was it a recent turn of events, or maybe something that had lingered for years? Why had he never said anything until now?!

"...Harry, I—"

"It's okay. You don't have to say it back—or anything at all, _really_." Harry's fingers curled around her palm, and a wave of warmth radiated from where their skin touched, slowly working its way towards her heart. "I'm sorry I ran away. I just needed some time to wrap my head around all of—"

He was spiraling. She'd seen him in this state more times than she could count—but instead of it being about school, or the War, it was about her. She knew that unless she stopped him, he would lose himself to the outpour of rambling emotions and it would take ages to pull him back down to earth.

Her hand squeezed his tightly as she moved forward in one swift motion before she could change her mind and she cut off his words with a kiss. Her free hand moved to cup his jaw, and beneath her fingertips, she could feel his pulse thump wildly.

Harry stiffened, a small squeak slipping from the back of his throat against her mouth as he sat frozen under her touch. She dared to scoot closer until their knees knocked, and she brushed her lips across his, letting the velvety softness of his mouth glide under hers. Kissing Harry sober was so different than she remembered—it wasn't rushed, or demanding. Not fueled by alcohol and unspoken need for release, she could take her time putting to memory the soft dip and curve of his cupid's bow.

This close, the smell that was distinctly him filled her, the bitter crispness of his soap was there, but underneath it, she could make out the musk that she used to lose herself in. Her fingers danced down his throat, across the fine stubble on his neck and her hands fell to his shoulders.

As much as she wanted to lose herself in the bloom of new romance, tonight wasn't supposed to be about just snogging Harry—not that she would have minded if that's all they did. But they were supposed to discuss important things like their upcoming marriage, and what her future of being married to both wizards looked like. This kiss was a gateway to something more, but that more was supposed to come later when feelings had been discussed.

Despite the pull to give in more, Hermione began to pull away, telling herself it was for the best, but just as her lips parted from his, she felt Harry finally react.

His right hand moved to her hair, thick fingers sliding into her curls, holding them tight as his mouth closed the minuscule space that separated them and his left hand fell to her waist, holding her close.

He kissed her with such reverence that her breath caught in her throat. He kissed her as if he'd dreamed of this moment a thousand times. The way his feelings for her poured into that single moment was more than she thought she could handle. Harry had been a constant fixture in her life for as long as she could remember—he was her rock when she needed grounding, he was her shoulder to cry on when sad, and he was the person she'd turn to the moment she had good or bad news. And now? Now those feelings that bubbled up inside her made it known that he was also _so much_ more.

When his tongue swept across the seam of her lips, she was more than happy to oblige his unspoken request. Her mouth parted for him, and she let her tongue slip against his, her head tilting with the gentle tug on her curls.

Technically speaking, there wasn't a damn thing wrong with what they were doing. They'd been friends for years, which meant there was truly no need for them to _get to know_ one another like other couples might have to. Harry already knew everything about her—from embarrassing childhood memories to the number of moles on her back. And she him.

Which was why when the hand on her waist moved to her back and he began to guide her body into his lap, she didn't fight it. Talk could come later. They had forever to bloody talk—but they only had this moment to learn the feel of her body against his.

Hermione straddled his lap, knees pressing against his hips as she scooted impossibly close so she could feel the hard planes of his abdomen against her stomach. Her arms curled around his neck, hands sliding back over his muscles in slow strokes.

His hands moved over her hips, forging unforgiving paths across her skin as he slipped them into her back pockets, his fingers curling lightly against her backside as he edged her closer until her body was flush against his.

She could feel his heartbeat thump erratically against his chest and knew he could feel her own. This was crazy, snogging her best friend, but also enjoying it—but Merlin if it didn't feel so fucking right.

Everything about this moment was like a dream, some long-established fantasy from what felt like a lifetime ago. There had been a moment during her preteen years she would have given anything to end up in this position with him—lip locked and straddling his lap, but that felt like a lifetime ago. And now? Well, now it almost felt surreal to finally give in to these urges after so bloody long.

His mouth parted from hers, and a small whimper of protest filled the scant space between them, and it almost shocked her to know it came from her own lips. He wasted no time in peppering the column of her throat in kisses, nipping and licking his way down to the crook of her neck.

Her hips moved of their own free will, gently rocking against him, encouraging his mouth to continue its exploration across her shoulder, straining the buttons on her blouse. She could feel his cock thicken beneath his sweats, pressing into the seam of her denim trousers, turning her mind to mush.

And just when Harry's hand rose, his long fingers curling around the swell of her breast, the sound of the Floo igniting pulled them both from their eager touches just like it had less than a week prior. Except this time, Hermione didn't push Harry away, nor did he scramble to put distance between them. Instead, the pair sat frozen, eyes locked on the floor as they watched James and Sirius stumble from the emerald flames in a fit of laughter.

"Oh!" Sirius gasped, his arm slung around James' shoulder. "Look! Your boy's getting the jump on you, Prongs," he slurred as he jostled his taller friend. "Better go join in, mate!"

Hermione couldn't be certain if Sirius was holding up James, or James holding up Sirius, but the way the pair swayed on the hearth, practically stumbling over their own feet left little to wonder about what state they were in. They were positively pissed!

James peered at Harry and her from behind finger smudged lenses, hazel eyes fuzzy from the effects of one too many drinks. His already rosy cheeks darkened and he pressed his lips together in a line as he inhaled sharply when his eyes drifted down to see Harry's hands in her back pockets.

"Shut up, Padfoot," James mumbled, yanking his arm around Sirius middle as he gave his friend a small shove before stumbling forward, the toes of his boots dragging on the hardwood. "Ignore him—sorry."

"Are you two pissed?" Harry withdrew his hands from her pockets, opting to grip her waist as he hoisted Hermione from his lap, setting her gingerly on the couch beside him. "Merlin, what the hell did you two drink?"

"The _real_ question here is—" Sirius slurred, moving towards the couch as he flailed his arm out, letting his hand fall with a loud thunk on top of Hermione's head— "do I need to purchase a new couch or did you keep your cock inside your trousers?"

"Oh, Circe." Hermione swatted at Sirius' hand, pushing him away until he fell onto the couch between her and Harry in a fit of giggles. "Clearly the whole bloody fucking bar by the looks of it."

James had made it across the room, managing to fumble his way to the wall, knocking over two vases, an end table, and several pictures from the wall in the process. He clutched the wall, swaying before he pressed his forehead against the wallpaper with a loud laugh. "Not the _whole_ bar, clever witch. Just many….many pints….and I think some Vodka."

"WHISKY!" Sirius shouted from the couch, timing his declaration with a fist in the air.

"And whiskey!" James added, snapping and pointing towards his equally inebriated friend.

"TEQUIILA!"

"Tequila? No, we didn't have any—"

"GIN!"

Hermione rose from the couch, eyes rolling skyward. "Merlin's cock, can you get him to quiet down?" Hermione tossed her hand towards Sirius as she stepped over his outstretched legs. "I'm liable to murder—"

"WHISKY!"

"—him if he doesn't." Hermione shot a look at Harry, who was clearly doing his best not to fall into a fit of laughter as Sirius pulled him in for a bear hug on the couch.

"Where are you going? I'm not picking up after these two." Harry laughed as he allowed Sirius to pull him close until his head came to rest on his Uncle's chest, letting the drunken wizard pet his messy black hair.

"Well, this one," Hermione said as she jutted a thumb towards James, who had begun to slump over on the wall, his eyes half-lidded, "can barely stand up. I'm going to put him in the guest room. That one," she pointed towards Sirius, "needs a pain potion and to be put to bed as well. So, I'll take the one that doesn't get handsy when he's drunk."

"I'm not handsy!" Sirius defended, bleary gray eyes shooting daggers at her. "I just like touching things, soft things…like your hair…and Crookshanks…and blankets…and marshmallows. Oh merlin, do we have marshmallows? Fuck I need one."

Hermione had to double step to get out of the way when Sirius shoved Harry and rose from the couch far quicker than any drunk person ought to. With a mad dash out of the room, his wide gait thumping loudly down the hallway, he made a beeline for the kitchen.

Harry looked at the space his godfather once occupied, dumbfounded by the older wizard's drunken dexterity, until Hermione snapped his name and motioned for him to follow. Because Nimue only knew what sort of damage that man would be able to do to their kitchen in his current state.

"Oh! Right" Harry pushed up from the couch, quickly adjusting himself through his sweats as he edged around the table with a small laugh. "So...I uh…guess we should finish this later?" Harry questioned, quirking a brow as he approached.

"I think that would probably be smart," Hermione agreed, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. "I'm free tomorrow morning."

"Can't…patrol. What about Thursday?"

"Thursday morning. Breakfast in the canteen?"

"Wouldn't miss it." Harry flashed her a smile that made her insides quiver, and it was then that a loud crash from the kitchen echoed up the flight of stairs into the room, followed shortly by a howl of: "I'm okay!"

A bark of laughter bubbled up Harry's throat, eyes crinkling and his smile wide as he moved closer. His hand cupped her jaw and he brought her up for a quick lingering kiss, his nose nudging hers as he pulled back. "Night 'Mione," he breathed, emerald eyes flickering between hers as he swept his thumb across her cheek before pulling away.

"Night Harry," she whispered, her heart thumping erratically beneath her chest as she watched him back out of the room, giving the half-asleep James a sympathetic pat on his way out.

"You know…I don't mind you kissing him first," James mumbled from where he slumped against the wall, opening one eye to peer at her as she approached.

"Oh, that's really kind of you, James." Hermione slipped her arm around his middle, slowly easing his weight onto her as she let out a heavy breath. Merlin, he was huge, easily having several stone on her, and at least a couple on Harry. Even through the thick jacket he wore, she could feel the hard definition of the muscles that ran his sides. "Let's get you to bed, yeah?"

James only grunted in response before he turned his head so he would nudge his nose into the thick layer of her curls, putting his mouth so close to her ear she could feel his lips graze it as he whispered, "I don't mind…I'm just jealous."

Hermione gulped, guiding him down the hallway towards the stairs. "Oh?" She shouldn't pry. He was drunk and clearly unable to control what information he divulged, but the temptation to know more was too strong. What did he mean by jealous? Jealous of what precisely?

"Mhmmm." The low rumble of his hum vibrated his chest underneath her hand. "Very…_jealous_," he confirmed in a drawn out whisper.

Hermione's breath hitched, a flush of desire blooming low in her belly, and she told herself it was just residual from Harry's kiss. She moved them up the stairs slowly, careful to make sure James didn't trip over the steps before they made it into the guestroom.

Guiding James on the bed, she pushed him until he lay flat, his head landing softly against the plush pillows. "Well, you have nothing to be jealous about," Hermione said dismissively as she moved to sit at the end of the bed; pulling his booted foot into her lap, she began to untie the thick laces.

James sighed, his hands lifting to slide under his glasses and he pressed his fingers against his closed eyes. "But I do…I fancy you and—and you're kissing my fucking son, and gods I wish it was me."

Hermione's hands froze, eyes snapping up from his boot to watch him. "Uh. I'm sorry—what?"

"I fancy you." James dropped his hands dramatically on the pillow above his head before craning his neck so he could look down at her. His eyes were wide, brewing with a mixture of longing, confusion, and desire. So powerful and complex, they nearly stole the breath from her lungs. "Gods, for _so _bloody long and…and you're so beautiful, but you…you like Harry and you were kissing him and how the fuck are you supposed to kiss me when you're—"

"Okay, that's quite enough." Hermione pulled her eyes away from James', and she looked back down to his boot, making quick work of the knot before she yanked the boot free from his foot and tossed it to the floor. "Maybe we should have this conversation when you're a bit more…sober...when you can remember what you're saying."

James gulped thickly, watching as she removed his other boot with a slow burn of infatuation coloring his expression.

Hermione stood up, snatching the throw from the foot of the bed and shaking it out before beginning to drape it over him. Her mind felt full, like she was wading through the hardest Arithmancy calculation she'd ever come across. How was it possible for Harry _and_ James to fancy her? Sure, Harry's proclaimed crush was a bit easier to grasp—but _James?! _

He was…he was a frequent visitor in her bedroom fantasies, the unattainable figure in her life that she was only ever allowed to dream about. But there he was, pissed to the point of stumbling, telling her that he didn't just fancy her, but that he was jealous she'd been snogging Harry.

"Hermione?"

The way he said her name sent a shiver down her spine, and when she lifted her eyes from the bedding to find his, she gulped. He was reaching for her, his hand curling around hers and with a gentle pull, he guided her to him until her hip was against the bed near his torso.

"Can you stay?" His fingers slowly laced with hers. There was a roughness to his palms that only seemed to fan the flames of desire inside her. Years of working for the DMLE, being on patrol, and fighting crime had left the once soft skin on his palms tough, but there was some sort of draw to them. She couldn't help but wonder what they might feel like on her back, stroking her skin, or even between her thighs.

"James, I don't—"

"Please…I just don't want to be alone."

Hermione hesitated, teeth worrying her bottom lip before she nodded. "Scoot over," she instructed, and James reluctantly let go of her hand to comply. Toeing out of her shoes, Hermione crawled up into the bed beside him but didn't dare lay down.

Instead, she sat upright, her back against the headboard as she eased James' head into her lap. Removing his glasses, she folded them and set them on the nightstand beside her before she settled back, beginning to card her fingers through his salt and pepper hair.

His arms moved around her waist, holding her close, and he nuzzled his cheek against her thighs until he found the perfect spot to claim as his pillow. It didn't take long for sleep to claim him, and soon the soft sound of his heavy breath marked by the occasional little grunt of a snort filled the room.

Hermione knew she should leave, but she found herself unable to pull away from the new blossom of warmth that filled her soul under his touch. This didn't make any sort of sense—James' claim of being interested in her, and his almost possessive need to hold her close while he slept off his drinks. But Hermione tried not to linger on it too long, because more than a little part of her was happy to stay and pretend like the confusing emotions that brewed inside her made a little sense. Like it was okay to have feelings for both Harry and James—because technically, this is what the Ministry wanted, right? For her to be married to the two wizards.

* * *

**Author's Note:  
**

_Song: Union of The Snake - Duran Duran_

I know a lot of you were curious a to Sirius pairing-and here you are! Thank you to my team (disenchantedglow, ikeawhatyoudidthere, wildflowerweasley & dreamsofdramione), and of course, all you lovely readers. I'm shit at replying to reviews, but know I do read and cherish all of them.

Side note: if you're into Triad/Multi pairings, check out my facebook group 'Restricted Section: Mutli's & Triad's only'! We just wrapped up Kinktober, and have A Very Naughty Holiday releasing next month!

You can also find me on facebook under msmerlin eff. Friend me! I swear I won't bite (unless you ask ;P ).

until next time. xx


	6. Chapter 6

_I will make you queen of everything you see  
__I'll put you on the map  
__I'll cure you of disease_

* * *

Hermione stood outside the restaurant, the summer breeze stirring the skirt of her dress, fluttering the plum coloured fabric around her knees. Summer was drawing to a close, but the last remains of warmth still clung in the air, giving her one last opportunity to wear the strappy little sundress before she hung it in her closet, where it would only return once late spring's sun broke through the layer of frost that would soon blanket the ground.

She tapped a painted nail against the beaded bag at her hip, nervously glancing up and down the sidewalk, watching as couples walked hand in hand down the sparsely lit street.

When she'd received the owl earlier with the address of the restaurant, she had to admit she was a bit surprised to see a London address. She knew James was familiar with life outside magical Britain, as he'd often taken Harry to see his former in-laws when he was younger—but she also knew he was a pureblood, which meant his knowledge about all things Muggle was likely limited at best.

How he'd found the restaurant in question was something she was far more interested in. It was a little French Bistro tucked away in the Mayfair district, just a small walk from Hyde Park—certainly a far cry from the greasy spoon and little street carts she knew he liked to frequent inside Muggle London.

"Hermione!"

The call of her name drew her attention behind her and Hermione spun around, her heart kick starting into a nervous beat. James was walking up the alley between the bistro and the office building, his wild hair combed into submission with just a hint of disorder curling his fringe. He wore a Muggle suit that looked bespoke, the clean lines cutting across his form, draping him in a fabric that looked far too expensive to be anything but made specifically for him. His wire rim glasses sat high on his nose, highlighting the beautiful warm browns and greens that made up his hazel colored eyes, and for a moment, she lost herself in the way a charming smile stretched across his lips.

Merlin, she knew he always looked good—but surely looking like this was fucking illegal.

His loafers snapped against the broken pavement as he approached, and when he was just within arm's reach, James extended his hand towards her and let it find the small of her waist. "Wow, you look," his eyes swept over her, and a flare of warmth burst to life in her belly, radiating across her skin, "beautiful." He leaned in to drop a chaste kiss on the high of her cheek.

Hermione pressed a hand to his chest, her fingers sliding across the lapel of his tweed jacket as she leaned up to return his kiss, thankful that she'd opted to wear Madam Verona's Kiss Proof Lip Stain that evening as opposed to the Muggle cosmetic she normally relied on. "Thanks. You look rather handsome yourself."

"Oh, before I forget." James pulled back just enough to put little space between their bodies as he reached into his suit coat and withdrew a single flower. The thick stem rolled between his fingers, spinning until the dark burgundy face of a dahlia was visible.

Hermione's brows lifted and she took a half step back to accept the flower. She'd been on numerous dates over the years—this was far from her first Quidditch match, so to speak, but this was the first time she'd been gifted a flower before. Most of the men she'd dated just assumed she didn't enjoy the frivolities of receiving flowers. And while yes, they weren't as practical as a good book, or leather bound notebook, she absolutely loved them. They were such a precious gift, temporary, lasting only a few days between cut to wilt, but she loved to appreciate their fading beauty.

"A dahlia?" Hermione's questioned, her index finger running along the fuzzy stem. It was a rather interesting choice, seeing as the beauty of the dahlia was purely aesthetic. There was no scent to lure her in, and while beautiful in their own right, the burgundy flower didn't follow the tradition the modern era set of roses or other fragrance filled blooms.

"It is," James confirmed with a growing smile as he watched her finger the curled petals. "It was one my mum's favorites. My dad gave her a bouquet of white dahlias when he began courting her, and every month thereafter until they passed away. The white are my favorite—unsurprisingly, but I saw this colour and immediately thought of you." He lifted his hand, gently running a fingertip across the outermost ring of petals.

A slow blush crept across her skin, and she sucked in her bottom lip, chewing on it thoughtfully as she tried to think of how she could ever respond without sounding completely daft. The sentiment was beyond sweet—James following his late father's lead years after his passing, and moreover, using the words of the man he clearly cared so much about to help make her feel special. She couldn't help but wonder if Harry knew the story about his grandparents, but she dared not ask.

She, instead, opted to rise up on her toes and press a soft kiss against his cheek, before whispering, "Thank you," as she sunk back down.

James' smile widened, and if it were possible, he looked more pleased with himself than she'd ever seen him look before. His hand rose, fingers brushing over his black hair, careful not to mess it from the semi-contained style he'd subdued it into tonight. "So...shall we?" He questioned, glancing over his shoulder before looking back to Hermione as he dropped his hand, extending it towards her.

Hermione slipped her hand into his, and she laced their fingers together, trying her best to ignore the riot of butterflies that burst to life at the innocent touch. She'd always found James attractive–not just physically, but intellectually speaking, but tonight felt so different. He looked younger, if possible, alive with something akin to hope and promise lingering in his eyes.

James gently guided her into the restaurant, the soft tinkle of a brass bell signalling their entrance to the maître d' who stood poised behind the podium in a crisp black suit. Slipping his hand from hers after one final squeeze, James walked up to the stern looking host, and after a short exchange, he turned to motion for her as the maître d' gathered a set of menus.

Hermione tucked the dalhia into her purse, careful to leave the bloom exposed so as not to crush the flower, before she moved after the maître d' who had begun to lead the way into the dimly lit restaurant. When James' hand found the small of her back, Hermione could feel a rush of heat color her cheeks and creep down her neck.

She told herself it was nothing, just a friendly touch to help guide her through the restaurant—no different than what he would have done before this whole Magical Marriages business was announced, but now she seemed keenly aware of the way his thumb rested on the line between innocent and indecent. One stray digit would quickly turn the guiding touch into something decidedly _more_ and although they were in public, Hermione couldn't help but wish he would.

They moved through the restaurant in silence, past happy couples sharing meals and bottles of wine. From hidden speakers strategically placed around the room, a soft string quartet's melody set the tone—romantic and dreamy.

These white linen restaurants were ones Hermione seldom visited, even during her previous courtships. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy some fine dining every now and then, but they were not places wizards in their early twenties felt up to splurging on. No, she would get lucky if she got a take away box from Johann's before catching a Quidditch Match or a professional Wizards Duel.

They were sat in the back of the restaurant, tucked away in the far corner closest to the kitchens. James, ever the gentleman, helped her into her chair before taking his own. The maître d' didn't mutter a word to her, placing their menus down with an almost flippant attitude before he cut a hard look at James. "Your server will be with you shortly, Mr John," he said crisply, turning from the table before either of them could so much as utter a single word.

"Mr John?" Hermione whispered, not wanting to disturb the patrons around her. She picked up her linen napkin and unfolded it over her lap.

"I think I might have upset him." James' hazel eyes cut across to the small space where the man had disappeared just moments ago before he looked back to her. "When I called to make the reservation, I _might _have used a fake name."

"Why on earth would you do that?" Hermione cocked her head to the side. She'd heard stories of James pulling pranks while at Hogwarts, and knew he still had a bit of a wild streak when he hung out with Remus and Sirius, but this certainly wasn't the occasion for him to goof off.

"I don't know...habit? I never use my nor Harry's real name when making appointments. I haven't since he was a kid. Regardless, I never thought my fake name was a poor choice until this evening." James sheepishly lifted his shoulders in a small shrug as he settled back in his chair. Reaching forward her curled his hands around the menu, fingers dancing along the edges. "You should have seen the look on his face when I checked in. I thought he might kick us out."

"Really? What name did you use?" Hermione cracked open the menu to lay flat in front of her on the table. Her eyes briefly left James' to examine the selection before her. Much to her surprise, the entire thing was in French—not that it was an issue for her, having long ago picked up enough of the language to get by while on her family's holidays abroad, but she wasn't sure if James was versed enough in the language to be able to know what the bloody hell to order.

"My fake name?"

"Yeah." Hermione let her finger mark her spot on the page before she looked back up to the older wizard. "Surely it couldn't have been_ that _bad."

"John," James whispered, shooting a glance over his shoulder when a server in a black and white suit bustled out of the kitchen carrying two trays of steaming food. The wing of the door only narrowly missed the back of Hermione's chair. "Erm…you might want to scoot in a bit," he said, lifting his hand to gesture behind her.

Hermione looked over her shoulder to where James' eyes lingered and she watched as another waiter rushed out with a bottle of wine, the door narrowly missing her yet again. "Oh!" Scooting her chair in, Hermione tried to move as far out of the way as possible. "Well, maybe he just had a bad experience with a John—I can't imagine John Potter being _that _common."

"Elton."

"Come again?"

"My fake name is Elton John," James explained casually, as if he'd just provided a common name as opposed to that of a world famous rock star. Flipping open the menu, hazel eyes widened as he looked down at the page, and Hermione could make out the soft flash of confusion, but she paid his unusual reaction no mind, for she was stuck on the mention of his fake name.

Elton John? Was James truly that fucking oblivious or was casual ignorance a Potter trait Hermione wasn't aware of?

A bubble of laughter slipped unbidden from her throat, and Hermione quickly lifted her hand to her stained lips to try and suppress the flurry of mirth than threatened to follow. "Your—Oh, Merlin." Hermione lifted her index finger, eyes closing as she took in a slow breath to try and quell the spasm in her chest. "I'm sorry, but your fake name is Elton John?"

"Yeah. I heard it somewhere before and it stuck—thought it was perfectly average."

"James, you do know why you've heard that name before, right?" Hermione leaned forward, letting her elbow rest on the table, her index finger and thumb framing her jaw while the rest of her fingers rested across her mouth.

"Uh…no?"

"Oh Circe." Hermione let out a quick snort of laughter, teeth sinking into her bottom lip, and when the few patrons that surrounded them gave them a stern look, she lifted her hand from her face in a quick wave of apology. "That name isn't exactly—"

Before she could continue, a waiter pushed through the kitchen with a loud huff and stopped beside their table. His flop of bleach blond hair hung in his deep set eyes, and he quickly tossed his head back, letting the quaff fall back into place. "Good evening and welcome to The Gilded Goat. My name is Alfonso and I will be your waiter this evening. Can I get you started with a nice Pinot Noir or perhaps a smooth Syrah?"

James glanced up to the waiter, his smile only faltering slightly when the server cut him a stern look—for which Hermione could only assume was the fake name debacle. "A Syrah sounds nice…I think—is that the red one?"

Alfonso scoffed, his dark eyes rolling towards the ceiling as he sucked on his teeth disapprovingly. "I'll just bring you some _table wine_," he almost hissed, as if it were an obscene word.

Hermione bit her bottom lip, watching the server saunter back to the kitchen with a flourish of haughty confidence that felt far too big for someone with such poorly coloured hair. "Alfonso," Hermione called just as the blond reached the door, purposefully upticking her voice to draw the attention of the patrons around her as she lifted her hand to wave his attention back to their poorly placed table. "I believe we asked for the _Sy-arah._..so don't bother with the table wine," Hermione said, putting emphasis on the incorrect pronunciation and cocking her head to the side when she watched the waiter bristle. A saccharine smile was forced on her lips and she gave him a quick wave of her hand, as if shooing him back to the kitchens. "Thank you."

She knew it was probably juvenile—goading the waiter as she just did, but since James had already set this evening's meals up to be nothing short of hostile due to his foolish fake name—well, she figured she might as well have a little bit of fun.

The evening was not turning out at all as James had hoped.

If the restaurant wasn't bad enough already after the whole fake name issue, he couldn't even read the fucking menu! Why they didn't have a translated version of it on hand was quite possibly the stupidest thing he'd heard. And it wasn't like he could just pull out his wand—because _that_ would have gone _so well_ in a room full of Muggles.

The food, if that's what someone could call what they'd been served, was cold when they finally received it, and although he couldn't be certain, he was almost positive the waiter was giving him the mickey when he told him tartar was served raw in that pretentious tone James grew to hate more and more throughout their hellish meal.

And Merlin help him when he got the bill for their pittaly dinner of undercooked meat and mush. He was far from a restauranteur, that much was bloody obvious, but the praise Remus gave this place was _clearly_ too much. He needed to have strong words with the werewolf about his choice in eating establishments if this was his recommendation for a nice, romantic date.

As far as James was concerned, the only good thing they'd been served during that whole ordeal was the bottle of white wine that the waiter kept referring to as a Syrah—whatever the hell that was. All James knew was that it tasted a hell of a lot better than the raw steak the wanker had dropped off in front of him and tried to pass off as actual food.

Everything he'd planned to make this evening special felt like it was going up in flames. He'd really begun to believe he'd ruined any sort of chance at taking Hermione out on the proper date she deserved until her hand found his as they left the restaurant, and she asked if he wanted to walk around the park before apparating to their respective homes for the evening. He hoped that she might have been able to see past the painfully awkward moments, such as his pronunciation of clafoutis and find some sense of romance in their evening together.

"So...what made you pick _that_ restaurant?" Hermione questioned innocently, her heels clicking against the broken sidewalk as they made their way down the road beside Hyde Park with only the glow of street lamps to light their path.

"Honestly?" James breathed, lifting his free hand to ruffle his once tidy hair, having given up any attempt at keeping it neat nearly two hours ago. "Moony recommended it. Said you'd enjoy it."

"Ahh...that makes a lot more sense," Hermione mused with a small tinkle of laughter before she glanced up to James with the hint of a knowing smile quirking her lips. "I take it he didn't tell you I know French?"

"Wait, what?" James came to a halt, his hand still curled in hers, pulling her to a stop. "You know French?"

"I'm not fluent, but...enough to get by, yes." Hermione shrugged, laughing as she watched his face drain of colour.

"And you let me order?!"

"I mean...you were trying so hard! I didn't want to embarrass you!" Hermione said before letting out a sharp laugh when James pulled his hand from hers so he could smother his face, fingers slipping beneath his lenses to press against his eyes.

"Merlin's pants, Hermione. You could have—shit, I must look like a bloody fool," James mumbled into his hands, a slow sense of mortification washing over him. He was going to murder Moony. How could he fucking forget to mention that key detail? Had he known, James might have asked for help—or even chosen a restaurant that didn't require a bloody translator to get real fucking food.

"No, no, no!" Hermione closed the distance between them, the toes of her heels brushing against his loafers as she curled her fingers around his wrists and gently tugged his hands from shielding his face. "You were perfect. Honest? I haven't had a proper date since…well, since I don't know when and even if your French was shite—"

"Kick a wizard while he's down, why don't you?" James grumbled, but didn't dare move from her grasp.

"Hey, no! I was just trying to say that even if it wasn't perfect, you _trying_ is what counts." Hermione drug her thumbs across his wrists, stroking gently over his pressure points before she released her hold so she could reach up and brush a strand of his fringe from his forehead. "Honestly, I've had a great evening...I wouldn't change a thing—well, except maybe our dessert order. I can't stand blueberry clafoutis."

James' hands, now free, acted on their own accord as that found her waist. His fingertips stroked gently against the soft cotton of her dress as they curled around her hips. "That was kind of awful, wasn't it?" James breathed with a small laugh, suddenly feeling much more at ease with the night's snafus than he had moments earlier.

"Literally the worst." Hermione laughed, the corner of her eyes crinkling as her smile broadened. Her arms wound around his neck, and James could feel her fingers slip against the cropped hair on the base of his neck as she laced her fingers together.

It had been so long since he'd done anything like this, it almost felt foreign. The idea of being out on a date—let alone a date with a witch nearly twenty years younger than him, but one he was supposed to marry within a week's time due to some stupid ancient law that was never striken from the books—seemed too surreal. And yes, even though the Ministry had forced them together, he couldn't help but feel as if, in this particular moment, the way she was looking up at him underneath the street lamp on a fleeting summer night, that maybe—just maybe they would be able to find happiness through it all.

"I'm sorry tonight hasn't gone as planned...it's been a bit since I've taken a witch out on a date," he whispered, guiding her body closer to his until he felt her press against his chest, her warmth radiating through the thin cotton of her dress and his oxford to ignite the embers of new romance building low in his stomach. "I figured taking you to Madam Puddifoot's was out of the question. But after that dinner, it's starting to look like it would have been a much better choice—even with the cherubs and confetti."

"I mean, I wouldn't have said no...have you had her Jammie Dodgers?" Hermione cocked her head to the side as she lifted her brows, thick curls tumbling off her shoulders, exposing the lean line of muscle that ran down her neck.

"Have I? I practically lived on them during fifth year." James lifted a hand from her waist, and gently tucked her curls behind her ear, before he allowed his fingers to drift down her neck, skating over her shoulder, dancing across the sunkissed skin that seemed to glisten even in the artificial lamp light. "Next time, then?"

Hermione shivered under his touch, and goosebumps broke the surface of her skin where his finger had just been. He could hear her gulp, as if trying to collect her thoughts before she nodded. "I'd like that..._a lot_."

"Gods, you're perfect," he whispered, hazel eyes flickering back up to hers.

A slow blush crept along her cheeks, and he watched her teeth sink into her bottom lip. She'd been chewing on that poor thing all night, and he vaguely wondered if it had been boredom driving her to do so, but he could see it so clearly in her eyes now—how he missed it before was baffling. It was the same look he'd given her for so bloody long, but was too afraid to so much as say or do anything.

Adoration. Infatuation. And perhaps maybe something _more_—something so new and small that he couldn't quite make out what it meant just yet, but Merlin if he was right, it would make him the happiest wizard alive.

"Far from it. But I'm rather keen you still believe that after all these years," Hermione whispered, the barest hint of her pink tongue slipping between her painted lips to moisten them almost expectantly as her eyes flickered between his and his mouth.

She'd beguiled him for going on five years now—and in the moment, although it was so painfully obvious that all he needed to do was lean in and close the gap between their lips, he hesitated. It had been nearly twenty five years since he'd snogged a woman he had feelings for—let alone one he was destined to marry. Sure, he'd shagged a woman here and there since the early nineties, but he was a far cry from practised. What if she thought him a bad kisser, especially in comparison to his _much_ younger son?

Thankfully, the thoughts didn't plague him for long. Hermione, as if sensing his doubt, lifted her hand from his neck and moved to cup his cheek. She gently drew him down as she rose up on the tips of her toes, meeting him somewhere in the middle of the rapidly disappearing space that lingered between them and she pressed her lips to his.

Fireworks.

He'd always heard first kisses felt like fireworks, but he never knew what it meant until that very moment. As if awoken from a trance, her kiss set flame to the embers that crackled within him, and suddenly an inferno burned. His hand on her shoulder moved to sink into her curls, thick fingers tunneling deep into the nest on the side of her head as he took control of her shy kiss.

The pillowed feeling of her lips against his was unlike anything he'd ever felt before—and he doubted he would ever find anything that could come close ever again. Pieces of his soul seemed to realign, sliding back together, and Merlin, the taste of her tongue was nearly a religious experience. James was not one to thank the old gods, or the fates, but when they stood there, clutching one another underneath the yellow lamppost just on the outskirts of Hyde Park, the cooled summer breeze ghosting over their skin, James couldn't help but give a small thanks to whatever deity not only brought this witch into his arms that night, but also allowed him to have a small, tiny chance at claiming a piece of her heart.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

_House of Gold - Twenty One Pilots_

Oh James. You charming bastard. Until next time. xx


	7. Chapter 7

**Warning: this chapter is NSFW**

* * *

_And if in the moment I bite my lip  
Baby, in that moment, you'll know this  
Is something bigger than us and beyond bliss  
Give me a reason to believe it_

* * *

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Hermione sighed, tapping her quill against her inkwell with a bit too much fury. It was nearly nine pm and she still had three feet of parchment to review before she would even feel remotely comfortable with taking Friday off, but the farther she made it down the rolled parchment, the more frustrated she grew. "You know better than to try to sneak this shite in Dionn."

Hermione slashed her quill across the parchment, leaving a fine line of purple ink, striking out the addendum the Department of Wizarding Housing and Development tried to sneak into the Mermaid Sanctuary legislation. They were nearing the end of what felt like an eternity of trying to preserve the coastal breeding grounds for Northern Ireland's mermaid tribe. In the beginning, it had looked less than optimistic, but Hermione had been able to secure an agreement that allowed for the development of Parkinson Estates' new coastal luxury resort _and _saved a sizable chunk of land for the merfolk.

Although, based on the proposal Dionn, the Parkinson's barrister, sent over, it appeared as though a few key details had been forgotten.

Squinting down at the paper, Hermione put her quill between her lips so she could lift her wand from the desktop to adjust the brightness of the blue bell fires that burned above her. Summoning the closest one, she pulled the ball of blue flames until it hovered just overhead.

Since the pairing letters had been sent out, her life felt as if it were a runaway Hogwarts Express—steaming down the windy Scotish countryside with no stop in sight. Typically, her workload was enough to keep her on her toes, but adding in the extra dynamic of dating not one, but two Potter men, and juggling her friends who were also struggling with the news of their own Magical Marriages—well, by the end of the day, Hermione could barely keep her eyes open long enough to remove her makeup before she crawled into bed.

And as much as she wanted to enjoy her extra day off work at the end of the week, she was really dreading the idea of leaving so much work sitting for three days while she took the Ministry's forced vacation to _celebrate her fruitful union_ or whatever bullshite the Minister said in his memo. It was practically forcing all employees affected by the Law off work so they could go and bind themselves to one another.

Which is precisely why she was still at work, trying to push through the last of her paperwork. In two days time, she would be a married witch, and while she didn't even have enough time in her busy schedule to let the reality of what was to come sink in, somewhere in the back of her mind, a growing anticipation began to build.

She was to become Mrs Potter twice over before the week's end. Ever the practical witch, Hermione has insisted the trio pop on down to the Magical Marriage Office after work on Thursday and take care of the logistics of their binding. The Department was sure to be busy on Friday, and if they got through the hard part on Thursday—well, then they were free to move her into Godric's Hollow over the long weekend.

Technically speaking, she had not even had time to pack her things at Grimmauld Place, so all the extra hours she could afford to that effort were much appreciated. It felt weird knowing that within three days she would be moving out of the Black ancestral home that she'd claimed as her own for the past five years, and into Harry's childhood residence—the very same place Lily and James had made their own nearly two decades prior.

James had mentioned the possibility of relocating to the dusty manor his family had called home for centuries, but Hermione had insisted they stay. That place had been home for the two wizards for far too long for them to just abandon it because she was moving in. The fact that James was noble enough to suggest leaving with only her comfort in mind was almost more than she could bear. The sentiment was sweet—his and Harry's concern for her—but she'd be damned if the Ministry's foolish use of authority dictated every aspect of their lives.

No, they were going to stay put in Godric's Hollow. It was a sensible home. One that, despite the semi-awkwardness surrounding the fact that it had been purchased as James and his late-wife's family home, she did find some small comforts in. It was familiar, and reassuring. Everytime she crossed the threshold, it was as if a wave of familial magic washed over her, warming her soul and ushering her into the fold that was the Potter's lives.

Besides, it wasn't like she was going to claim the master bedroom as her own. Despite the fact that she was legally obligated to _copulate_—as the decree so eloquently put it—with both James _and_ Harry, Hermione was still going to use the guest room as her primary residence. She'd have a space of her own in the house—one she could decorate and do with as she saw fit.

And although it had never been explicitly said, she doubted very much that James would mind her changing out a couple of the more bachloresque fixtures in the home for something more appropriate. The alarmingly large stack of play-witch that sat in the upstairs study, for instance. And the posters of bikini clad witches Sirius had sticky charmed to the back of nearly every door during one drunken evening on a bloody dare.

But all of the thoughts of how she might be able to turn what had been a beacon of bachelorhood for the past twenty years into more of a home once more would have to wait.

She had work to do.

Work that required her full attention.

And perhaps another cuppa to help keep her eyes from glazing over.

Setting down her quill, Hermione rolled her neck from side to side, letting the vertebrae snap back into place as she leaned back in her chair. She'd long since slipped off her heels—opting to let her stocking covered feet rest against the ground. It was far from hygienic, but fuck it all. It had been a long day and it wasn't like anyone was in the office to judge.

Just as she stretched her legs under the desk, pointing her toes towards the floor, her arms lifting above her head, the sound of someone jiggling her door handle startled her out of her lazy stretch.

Her eyes flickered to the analog clock that sat on her wall, brow furrowing as she watched the second hand tick around its surface. It was almost nine at night, and she'd already told the house elves not to bother with her bin earlier, but only under the promise of vanishing the contents herself before she left for the evening.

"_Alohamora!"_

Instinctively, Hermione snatched her wand as she scooted out from under her desk. It had been a good number of years since the war, but the lasting effects of fighting for her life were never too far from her mind. She leveled her wand on the shadowed figure, tongue poised on the top of her mouth, prepared to fire off a restraining charm if needed.

"It's just me!" The shadowed figure stepped into the soft blue light of her office, revealing not a nefarious wizard, but rather one third of what was to make up her family in just three short days. "Circe, put that bloody thing down!"

"Merlin's pants, Harry." Hermione dropped her arm limply to her side, a heavy breath pushing from her lungs as slumped back in her chair, before lifting her non-dominant hand to rest over her thumping heart. "You scared me! What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing, my trigger happy fiancé." Harry's brows lifted over his thick black frames. He drew closer, letting the door swing shut behind him as he moved into the tiny space she claimed as her office.

"I was just finishing…" Her words faded as she took in his appearance, and suddenly chastising him about returning to the Ministry when she knew damn well his shift was supposed to have ended hours ago seemed trivial at best. "Harry, what happened?"

Hermione stood up quickly, not bothering to slip her heels back on as she moved around her desk, eyes widening as she stepped closer. She could make out the hints of a fresh bruise blooming around his right eye, the pink and purple skin swollen and taut, and his bottom lip was cut in the corner, the gash deep and crusted with blood as if he hadn't yet taken care of it.

Underneath his Auror duster, she could see that the collar of his gray shirt was stretched out, loose and floppy around his neck, showing just a hint of the black hair that peppered his chest.

"Oh, nothing." Harry dismissed her concerns. He'd always downplayed his own injuries and ailments to the point of it being a literal health concern. It wasn't until Umbridge started using her less than ethical discipline tactics on underclassmen during fifth year that Harry finally said a damn thing about what was happening. "If you think I look bad, you should see the other guy."

"I don't give a shite about the _other guy,_ Harry! What happened?" Hermione reached up, fingertips brushing across his brow, and when he winced under the gentle touch, a flare of rage bubbled up inside of her. She was going to hex whoever did this into oblivion. It didn't matter if they were already fucking arrested—she knew her way to the holding cell! She was going to make damn sure whoever laid a hand on Harry understood they had more problems to deal with than just the legal ramifications.

"Just a bar room scuffle. People are still upset about the whole Magical Marriage shite—honestly, it's not that big of a deal." Harry's hand wrapped around her wrist, gently tugging it away from his face.

"Who?"

"It's not—"

"_Who did this?"_

Harry hesitated, emerald eyes flicking between hers as his tongue ran out, sweeping across his lips, before he let his teeth trap it momentarily. "Kodias Kotodama, but honestly 'Mione, it's not that—"

"That fucking cunt!" Hermione swore, her lips pursing and she clenched her jaw. She yanked her wrist from his hand, fingers flexing, and she could feel her magic roll unbidden under her skin from the flare of anger that flashed within her, threatening to slip from her fingertips and crackle to life. "I'm going to—"

"Do absolutely nothing because I've already taken care of it," Harry said with a pointed index finger, his eyes leveling on hers over the top of his glasses. His brow was set. The air of authority in his tone both excited and intimidated her. She'd rarely got to see the authoritarian she knew Harry had to be while on duty—no, he was always kind, sweet, gentle Harry with her. "He's in a holding cell along with nearly half of the patrons in the Whyte Wyvern, sleeping off their liquor. He'll have assault charges brought up against him in the morning. There is nothing more that needs to happen. The absolute last thing I need is you going down to the holding cells and raising hell about a non-issue."

Hermione's lips pursed, her fingers curled into fists at her side. She wanted to tell him to fuck off—that he couldn't tell her what to do! She was well within her right to march down to the holding cells and give Kodias a piece of her mind. He was her fiancé, technically speaking, and she didn't have to physically hurt Kodias to make him feel small and pathetic.

Just as she opened her mouth, poised to remind her friend just what type of witch she was—how she would never stand for being told what to do, even in the most illogical situations, her eyes flickered to his hairline where a slow rolling bead of red dribbled down his forehead. "You're bleeding."

"What?"

"You're bleeding!" Hermione lifted her hand, dabbing her fingers in the blood before pulling back to show him the splash of crimson staining her skin. "Merlin's cock, Harry, did you not even go to the medic?"

Harry's hand moved to the back of his neck, his fingers ruffling his shaggy locks as he shrugged. "I...I just wanted to see you. Didn't think he got me _that_ good."

She let out an exasperated sigh and curled her hand into the front of his robes, letting his blood smear across the clothes as she began to tug him around her desk. "Sit."

Thankfully, Harry knew better than to argue—especially when she was in this state. His heavy boots thumped on the marble floor, and when she pushed him into her office chair, he happily took claim of it.

"I can't even believe you, Harry Potter. You should have gone to the medic immediately. What on earth were you thinking?" Hermione snapped as she began to riffle through her desk drawers in search of the small first aid kit she kept tucked away. After one too many incidents with letter openers, and the occasional facial collision with flying memos, she'd purchased a basic kit at Gordon's Apothecary in Greenwich.

Harry let out a breathy laugh, and she could hear the squeak of her swivel chair creaking. When she shot him a glance over her shoulder, she saw he was leaning back, his hands threaded behind his neck, and that goofy Potter grin already highlighting his features. "Honestly? Because I had a shite day and wanted to see you."

She fought the butterflies that began to burst to life in the pit of her stomach and rolled her eyes as she looked back down in her drawer. Finding the small red cloth pouch, she pulled it free from the clutter and set it on her messy desk before nudging the drawer closed with her hip. "You're such a kiss arse."

"I'm not lying. That's all I've wanted all fucking day...but after dealing with drunks, and fist fighting a rather angry Irishman, all I bloody wanted was a hug from you."

"Oh is that _all?_" Hermione snarked as she unzipped the bag, beginning to rifle through the contents until she found a small travel bottle of dittany, some cotton swabs, and a tube of scar ointment.

"Well, I wouldn't say no to a snog."

Hermione snorted as she spun around, already twisting the cork from the dittany vial and she shook her head. "You would only be so lucky after showing up to see me in such a state."

Harry only smiled in response, and when Hermione edged her way closer to him, he spread his legs so she could slip between his thighs, her knees brushing the pan of her office chair. She dipped the cotton swab in the oily potion, making sure it was thoroughly coated before bending at the waist so her face as level with his. "Head back."

She nudged his chin with the top of her head, directing him to the perfect position, one where dittany wouldn't spill down his cheeks. She began to apply a light layer across his bruised cheeks. "You know, I'm starting to think you like it when I patch you up."

Harry hummed in amusement, his eyes closing under her gentle ministrations as he reached out to rest his hands on her hips, his thumbers stroking softly across the jutting bone. "You were always better to look at than Madam Pomfrey."

"Oh? So, you're telling me you never had a thing for elderly witches in nurse's caps?" Hermione teased. "Could have surprised me by the amount of times you ended up there."

"Over half of those visits were through no fault of my own," Harry reminded her, pinching her side before he cracked one eye open to peer up at her when she swatted his shoulder in retaliation. "But no, nursing robes are not one of my kinks."

"But you have some?" Hermione could feel her pulse quicken as she gingerly dabbed the cut on his hairline, the white swab slowly turning rust brown as the dried blood seeped into it.

"Of course." Harry tilted his head towards her hand, letting her manipulate him however she wished. His eyes drifted away from her face, slowly running down the long column of her neck until Hermione could feel them peer into her blouse, trying to catch a peek of what laid beneath.

"Like…" She knew she shouldn't press, but curiosity was always her weakness—especially when it involved a handsome man. Hermione watched as the cut knit back together, the fresh pink of new skin creating a small patch in his hair and she tossed the dirty swab in the trashcan before picking up the scar ointment. Dabbing it on the end of her index finger, she began to blot the cuts she'd healed for him.

Harry's eyes snapped back up to Hermione's face, and a slow, wolfish grin spread over his lips. "Do you _really_ want to know?" He tugged her closer, his hands sliding over her hips to rest just on the swell of her arse, his index fingers stroking soft patterns into her skirt.

Hermione bit her bottom lip, hand paused on his hairline as she gulped down the rapidly forming lump in her throat. When did her office get so bloody hot? Surely there must be a bloody malfunction in the boiler room. She'd need to mention this in the morning, but for now, she stayed firmly planted in Harry's arms, despite the creeping heat. "I wouldn't have asked otherwise."

Harry pressed on her lower back with one hand as the other dropped, sliding over her arse. His fingers flexed lightly against her backside before continuing down to the top of her thigh. He hooked his fingers behind her knee, guiding her leg up until it sat against the outside of his hip, and in one fluid motion, he guided her into his lap, her skirt straining against her thighs.

"I have a thing for these skirts you wear—" His hands moved to her thighs, stroking across her stocking covered skin until he reached the tight hem, picking at the fabric to draw her attention down. "—and Merlin knows how many times I've thought about having my way with you in this very office."

Hermione's eyes stay glued to his hands, watching as he began to inch her skirt up. Each nudge exposed more and more of her skin, and any sort of reason that would tell her this was entirely inappropriate seemed far away and long forgotten.

His hands moved slowly, creeping her skirt up until the hemline sat against the tops of her thighs, the thick elastic band charmed to hold her stockings taut exposed. She felt a puff of hot breath ghost across the side of her face and the gentle brush of his lips just on the shell of her ear. "If I'm being completely honest...anything that involves _you,_ in particular, is my kink, 'Mione. Take these stockings for example."

His right hand moved to brush across her thigh, tracing the top of the nylon until his fingertips teased the skin on her inner thigh. Hermione's breath stuttered, eyes widening as the seemingly innocent touch was near centimeters away from becoming much more.

"On any other witch I wouldn't care…but on you?" Harry's nose lightly nudged her temple as he spoke, and his words were followed by a low groan that set the flames of desire inside her to a low roar. She could feel the heat move across her skin, igniting her senses, and she couldn't help the small little noise of encouragement that came from the back of her throat.

"Tell me to stop...because if you don't, I'm not sure I can." Harry pressed his forehead against her temple, and she felt the hand still at her waist curl tightly against her skin, as if his own grip on reality was slipping further and further away.

This was her chance. She would pull back on the reigns, slow down this runaway train of explosive desire that was threatening to consume them before they'd even got a proper chance to explore the new dynamics of their relationship.

Years of repressed desire, and perhaps a bit of that Gryffindor impulsivity that both Hermione and Harry shared, won out in the end.

Nothing about this was logical or even something she would ever agree to in a proper state of mind.

But he was so fucking handsome, and charming. And all _hers. _

And she wanted the taste of his lips more than she would have ever thought possible. Because even though she'd told herself they were never going to be anything beyond friends over the years, Nimue only knew that was a lie used to cope with the thought of him not being interested.

Hermione pulled back, putting just enough space between them to look down into his eyes, and her hand rose, slipping through his wild hair. "No," she whispered, the two lettered word taking up so much real estate in the room that she thought it might overflow. "Don't stop."

She watched Harry's eyes widen, his pupils dilating until only a sliver of emerald remained, and as a thrill of energy jolted down her spin, Harry leaned up to capture her lips in a searing kiss.

His hand on her thigh moved higher, his fingers pressing into the soaked centre of her knickers, and she felt his swear against her lips, but couldn't hear a damn thing over the rushing sound of her own heartbeat.

It all felt so surreal—his kiss, his electric touch, and Merlin, the way he made her body sing. Had she known years ago being with Harry would result in this euphoria, she might have thrown caution to the wind and claimed him for herself ages ago.

But then again, if she had, she wouldn't have another equally as handsome wizard to claim as her own. Of course, that wizard wasn't on the forefront of her mind right now, because had he been, she might not have tugged her skirt up around her waist to allow Harry better access when he pulled her knickers aside and let the rough pads of her fingers stroke over her dripping slit.

"_Fuck_." The swear was torn between a plea and a gasp, her fingers curling in his hair, and she nipped lightly at his lips when he chuckled in response, but made no attempt to stop his gentle exploration of the most intimate part of her body.

When he drug his fingers up her slit, guiding her clit into the valley created between his index and middle finger, she nearly came undone. It had been long—far too fucking long since she'd allowed anyone to touch her _there_. Her hips bucked involuntarily against his hand and his name was rasped into his mouth.

As if drunk off her noises, Harry set to work trying to elicit more of the little gasps and moans from Hermione, sliding his fingers through her essence, coating them thoroughly, before he resumed gentle swirls and taps against her clit until she was practically putty in his hands.

"_H-Harry,_" Hermione whinged, like a Goddamned school girl hidden in one of Hogwarts' alcoves. Her body was alive, snapping with uncoiled and unbound magic. She could feel the universe around her as if it were a corporeal, and all she needed was Harry to stop fucking teasing her and push her over the edge so she could become one with it.

"Say it again." Harry's voice was low—almost unrecognisably thick with need and he pulled back from their now sloppy kiss to look up at her face. "_Fuck, _don't ever stop saying it." His fingers moved to stroke through her folds once again, but this time, he allowed them to dip inside her, filling the ache of emptiness she wasn't even aware existed.

Her hips set a rhythm, moving against his hand, encouraging a tempo that made her toes curl, and her heavy breaths turn to a steady symphony of moans and whimpers. Gripping his shoulders, using him as leverage, she ground against his hand, seeking a release she was only vaguely aware she needed in that moment. All she knew was that the feelings he was pulling from her body with each stroke of his fingers were near transcendent, and she wanted to do nothing short of bask in their bliss.

Harry's mouth pressed against her throat, and with an encouraging nudge from his nose, she allowed him more access until he could freely lick and suck across her flesh as he pumped his fingers inside her.

The combination was heady—almost too much for her to take, and when his lips locked around the soft skin of her pulse point, sucking and nipping at the flesh, she nearly melted into him. The tension built low in her belly, pulling taut like a piano's string. She knew that she needed just a little more to find the familiar snap that would make her world complete.

His name was pleaded with a moan, her head tilting back, sending the cascade of curls tickling her lower back, and just when she was prepared to beg him for her release, she felt the sweep of his thumb at her clit, circling and teasing the bud until she finally came.

Her words felt breathless, a lost plea into a universe that was only focused on her inevitable demise by his wicked fingers. She felt her pussy spasm around his fingers, desperate to keep at least some part of him buried inside her, but Harry didn't let up. The tempo slowed, dragging and pulling her along her orgasm, but intent on making sure to push out her pleasure as long as possible.

It wasn't until she let her forehead rest against his shoulder, her body quivering through the sensory overload, that she finally felt his fingers withdraw. His hand returned to her hip, wet digits curling around the supple skin.

"So bloody beautiful—" His words were low and gravelly, still thick with desire. "So perfect."

Hermione lifted her head from his shoulder and moved her hand to touch his shaven cheek, eyes searching his before she leaned in to pull him into a kiss. Everything about this moment was so perfectly _them_. They'd never been the kind to take their time and slowly grow accustomed to anything. No, they'd always ran headfirst into irreversible decisions as far back as she could remember, and this—this intimate dance they were so clearly intent on learning was one she wasn't sure she would ever be able to give up.

As her tongue swept against his, enticing him back into a deep kiss, she angled her head to the side, her right hand moving down from his shoulder, slowly working over his chest and down his abdomen until her fingers grazed across his belt buckle.

She felt Harry tense as she began to feed his belt through the buckle, slowly unclasping it from around his waist until it hung loose at his hips. Her other hand moved to join its pair, and she made quick work of his button and zip, pushing open his trousers as she pulled back from their lip lock with a tug on his bottom lip.

She felt his breath ghost across her face as she slipped her fingers beneath the band of his boxers, and she pulled back enough to watch him as she pushed lower, her finger brushing against the clipped patch of hair that laid just above his cock. His eyes were half-lidden with desire, and based on the way he sucked in his breath, holding it in his throat, she knew he was about as bloody nervous as she was.

She'd dreamt of this moment for so fucking long—touching him, bringing him pleasure. Sure, in her fantasy they were younger, but where life had taken them somehow made this moment so much better. Time had built their friendship into love—undying and unwavering. She would have loved Harry until the day Death finally took her from this planet, even if they had never been bound together by some stupid fucking law. The Decree might have finally brought them together, but it would never hold a candle to what she felt for Harry—what she'd _always_ felt for him.

Her fingers trailed lower, brushing through the coarse hair until she nudged the head of his cock. The slick coating the head of his manhood slipped across the pads of her fingers, and she bit her bottom lip as she ran her hand across his shaft, watching his eyes flutter closed.

"'Mione." Her name was barely audible, just a whisper, but even still, she could hear the unspoken words that accompanied it, hidden in his body language. He needed this. He'd longed for this for nearly as long as she had, concealed under years spent keeping each other alive, and then accepting just each other's friendship as enough. He didn't need to verbalise just how desperately he craved her touch for her to understand precisely how he that same soul-consuming wave of emotion was overflowing from within her as well.

His fingers curled into her hips, nails scratching lightly at her skin through the thin layer of her blouse, and when she wrapped her fingers around his thick manhood, stroking his length as she pulled him free from his shorts, he let out a slow hiss of pleasure.

She scooted down his thighs, carefully sliding from his lap while her hand stroked him slowly, learning the contours of his cock while figuring out how much pressure to apply to make his eyelids flutter. This side of Harry was so new and different from the boy she knew—so raw, so visceral. She yearned to learn everything she could about this new side of the man she'd grown up beside.

Sinking to her knees before him, her skirt still crunched around her waist, Hermione's eyes flickered up to Harry's face once more, making sure he was watching her before she finally looked at his manhood. He was big, but not enormous, which she was slightly thankful for—what she was planning on doing was going to be hard enough, but if he were any bigger, she might not have even dared. His cock stood firm in her fingers, the head of his glistening tip deep red with need.

Scooting in until her knees sat under the chair, Hermione worked her way closer to his lap, her tongue sweeping over her lips as she reached out with her other hand to pull his shorts lower until she could tuck the elastic band out of the way.

"Mione...you don't have to." Harry's voice cracked, shakey with unrepressed desire. She felt his hand in her hair, pushing her curls from her face, before gently tipping her head back until he could catch her eye. She knew he meant it—she didn't have to do this, she knew he would never expect nor demand it, but Merlin, it made her want to do it more than ever. Because if that look in his eye wasn't enough to soak her knickers, it was the fact that he was clearly willing to forgo his desires if it meant her own comfort.

"I know." She smiled up at him. "I want to."

At her words, he inhaled deeply, holding his breath, and she took the opportunity to lean forward and press a soft kiss to the head of his cock, letting the velvety softness of his manhood mixed with the sticky essence coat her lips. She ran her lips down his length, her hand holding him at the base of his cock, keeping him aligned perfectly as she committed the feel of his skin against her lips to memory.

The same heady musk she'd come to associate with Harry filled her senses, and she rubbed her thighs together to relieve the slow ache of need that began to bloom to life within her once more.

Working her way back up his shaft, she allowed her tongue to press against his head, tasting the salty sweet coating on his cock, and when he let out a low groan in response, she wrapped her lips around him, slowly rubbing the flat of her tongue around his head before setting a steady rhythm.

His fingers tunneled into her curls, nails scratching lightly at her scalp, sending small jolts of electricity down her spine. The noises that tumbled from his throat, praise and pleas of her name, only fueled her need to bring him as much pleasure as he'd given her.

Her knees throbbed, the cold marble floor far from the most comfortable thing she'd ever knelt on, but she kept her pace, head bobbing, her hand mirroring her mouth up and down his shaft. It wasn't until Harry pulled on her hair, the sharp sting pausing her movement, that she finally lifted her mouth from his cock.

Harry's eyes were wide, pupils nearly devouring all signs of green, and his lips were parted, heavy breaths lifting his chest. He gulped, his adam's apple bobbing up and down the column of his throat before he bit his bottom lip, as if struggling to find words he could string together to make a coherent sentence. "Stand up," he finally managed, fingers lifting from her curls to ruffle his hand through the top of his messy hair.

"Huh?" Hermione's hand was still curled around the base of his cock, and she tilted her head to the side. She'd heard many things whilst giving head before, but she had never been asked to stop. Almost immediately, a stone fell into the pit of her stomach, an unwelcome worry filtering through her thoughts. "Was it...not okay?"

His hand paused on the top of his head, brow furrowing as he looked down at her, and before he ever uttered a word, a small laugh slipped from his throat. "Circe, are you bloody kidding me?" A slow smile broke over his lips and he scooted to the edge of the chair, his thighs effectively trapping her as he leaned forward to put his hands on her cheeks. "Mione, if I didn't stop you...I wasn't going to get to do anything else. And as fucking great as it was—I really…._really_ don't want to stop at a blowjob."

"Oh…" Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip as a slow blush swept over her cheeks at his admission, and she felt his thumbs trace it across her skin as she rose to a tall kneel between his thighs. Leaning forward, she quickly pressed a soft kiss to his lips before she moved her hands to his knees, gripping them as she pushed off the floor.

Her knees sang from the relief, and her tanned skin was beet red from the pressure. She rubbed the heels of her palms across the redded spots before she rose to her full height.

Just as her hands moved to her bunched up skirt, intending to pull it back down into place, Harry's hands snaked up her thighs, his thumbs hooking in the side of her sensible cotton knickers, and he began to drag them down her legs with an effortless charm that both surprised and turned her on.

He pressed a reverent kiss against her abdomen as he leaned forward, helping them past her knees, before letting them pool at her feet. He took his time, guiding each of her feet from the floor to slip the undergarment off her body. "Turn around." He spoke against her side, teeth nipping lightly at her hip before he sat back, fingers curling her knickers into his palm. He smiled up at her in a manner that screamed lecher far more than boy next door.

Her mind swam as she watched him cock his head to the side, his eyes roaming over her crumpled outfit, down her body, before creeping back up in a slow scan that made her blush deepen. She obeyed his request, nervous for whatever plan he had in store, but she didn't dare question it—afraid that if she did, he might bloody change his mind and stop.

She heard the squeak of her chair as he rose, and the soft sound of the wheels sliding over the marble let her knew he'd pushed it away. Her hands fidgeted nervously with the bottom of her blouse, twisting and rolling the expensive fabric as she waited for him to say—or do—anything that might give away his plan.

She waited for what felt like an eternity, growing impatient with each second that ticked away, but soon her wait was over. His hands moved over her bared hipped, nails scratching against her skin, before he moved one over the swell of her arse and up her spine where he applied light pressure, guiding her body to bend over at the waist.

Her hands pressed against her desk, and when his booted foot tapped against her feet, she widened her stance hesitantly at his unspoken request. Just as suddenly as his hands appeared on her skin, fulfilling her craving for his touch, they were gone, his previous warmth ebbing, leaving her cold and brimming with need.

"Harry, what are yo—" Just as the words slipped off her tongue, they were replaced by a low moan when she felt his face between her parted thighs from behind. His tongue was sweeping between her sodden folds, seeking out her clit and she felt his nose nudge lightly against her core. "Holy shite!"

She felt the vibration of his laughter against the most intimate part of her body, and his hands curled into the globes of her arse, parting her body for him as he seemed to burrow his way farther into her body to deliver slow, sweeping licks that were going to drive her straight into the arms of madness.

She pressed herself flat against her desk. Distantly, she could hear her folders, trinkets and inkpot smash to the ground, but she couldn't find it in herself to care in that moment, not when he was doing such delicious things with his mouth. She was far from a virgin, but this was entirely new.

The angle was mind-numbing, the depth his tongue could reach inside her quivering cunt, tongue flicking across her clit as his nose nudged at her entrance. Her hands moved across her desk, knocking more of her belongings to the floor as she moved to grip the edge, holding onto it as if it were the only thing preventing her from floating away.

His tongue moved back, replacing where his nose had been to briefly burrow inside her, and the litany of swears the tumbled from her lips would have made even the most hardened wizards blush. The rumors had been true, and Hermione didn't know if she was more excited about that fact, or furious that someone else got to experience Harry this way before her.

She was close, so bloody close to finding her release for the second time. Her thighs quivered, goosebumps lining her skin, and just when she thought she might be able to find it, she felt Harry's mouth pull away from her, and his hands loosened their tight hold on her backside.

A whimper filled the room, and Hermione was surprised to realise the noise was coming from her own throat. She lifted her head off the desk, peering over her shoulder to watch as he pulled his shirt over his head, revealing his well-defined chest. Dark hair peppered his torso, thick and coarse, and she was tempted to turn around so she could run her fingers through it, but he was too quick.

His hands dropped to his hips, shoving his trousers and shorts down to settle around his muscular thighs, and she nearly let out a moan of relief when his intent became clear.

Her body sang when she watched him stroke his cock with one hand as he closed the distance between them, his other moving to curl around her bared hip, and Hermione instinctively rose on her toes, arching her lower back so her arse lifted towards him.

"Charm?" Harry lifted his eyes from where they're been glued to her backside and he cocked a brow, evidently holding off for her answer, and as much as she wanted to thank him for being at least semi-sensible about protection, her primal instinct wanted to throttle him for not filling up her aching body immediately.

"Potion."

"Thank fuck." She felt his cock brush across her cunt, coating his manhood in her slick before he notched himself at her entrance, both of his hands curling around her bare waist. Her skirt was around her middle, pushing up her blouse, leaving her entirely bare from the waist down except for the nude pair of stockings charmed to stay on her thighs.

He moved slowly, gently rocking into her, pushing inch by excruciating inch into her sodden core. Hermione dropped her head, curls framing her face as she tried to rock back into him to encourage a quicker deeper pace, and it wasn't until his name was moaned as a plea that he finally relented.

The build was slow, his hands guiding her hips back into him, and with each push and pull, his tempo increased until she felt the sting from the slap of his hips against her arse. Her body jolted with each thrust, and her desk bit new bruises into her hips.

Her moans and his own filled her tiny office as she lost herself to this moment with him. It wasn't traditional, or even remotely romantic. But the truth was, Harry didn't need to romance her, nor bed her on rose petals with lit candles. No, this desperate coupling—quick, frantic and explorative—was so indicative of how she knew their relationship would be from here on out.

"Fuck, 'Mione," Harry groaned, his right hand sliding up her side, fingertips brushing across her ribs. "I'm so close."

Her nails scratched against the oak, leaving white lines on the soft wood. "Me too," she rasped in return, elbows buckling under the growing weight of her desire, and she pressed her forehead against her desk as her eyes shut tight.

She was right on the edge, toes curled over the cliff, and she was ready to dive off. He felt so good, filling her over and over again, the thrill of his touch on her skin, the sting from the snap of his hips. The combination was building a tension so tight that she knew she was seconds away from losing herself, but it wasn't until he finally gave her permission—as if her body was waiting for it, that she felt that familiar snap once again.

"Come 'Mione…come for me."

Drugging waves overtook her, sweeping her under the riptide of oblivion as she felt her pussy contract around his manhood, pulling him into the fast moving current of release with her. She felt his body slump over hers, his sweaty forehead pressing against her shoulder blade, soaking through her blouse. He ground his hips against hers as a snarl of completion mixed with her throaty moans until the noise was deafening.

They stayed like limp across her desk, the tick from her wall-clock a metronome for their heartbeats as they tried to collect their breath. His cock was still buried deep inside her, pulsing with slow release, and she could feel a combination of their fluids coat her thighs.

She knew she should move—she should pick up her items, and clean up the spilled ink from her floor. She should check Harry's wounds one last time before insisting she go home to get some rest, but as she laid bent over her desk, the heavy weight of his body crushing her in the most delicious way possible, she realised she simply couldn't summon the will to move—she didn't _want_ to leave the safety of his arms. At least not yet—not while the fog of what they'd done still clouded her judgment and allowed her to forget about how the other person in their relationship might react.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

_Song: Love me Harder – Adriana Grande & The Weeknd_

So...that happened. Leave it to Harry & Hermione for kicking off the smut, yeah? It only felt fitting he have her first-after all, he's waited longer. right?

Until next time. xx


	8. Chapter 8

_Shine, step into the light_  
_Shine, so bright sometimes_  
_Shine, I'm not ever going back_

* * *

The dull ache between her thighs acted as a bittersweet reminder of what happened between her and Harry less than twenty four hours ago. Each step she took provided renewed memories of what they'd done in her office even before she set foot in the room.

She shouldn't feel guilty.

There was nothing wrong with what they did—even if it was absolutely impulsive and rather foolish. But, technically speaking, she could shag whomever she bloody well wanted. She was an adult, and able to make decisions—even poor ones.

But she couldn't help the slow ebb of guilt that penetrated past the euphoria that had built inside her last night. By the time she made it to Grimmauld Place and into the shower to wash away the evidence of what had occurred, her mind couldn't help but drift from thoughts of Harry to the wizard that was to be her _other_ husband.

Her mind stayed busy all night, like a mase, shifting between rapidly changing thoughts that kept her up late into the night and carried in the next day as she got ready for another day at the Ministry.

They hadn't established ground rules, or set up some sort of structure to this madness. They didn't discuss the logistics of _how_ she was going to be with both of them, and fuck it all, they didn't even remotely touch upon the civilities involved with being _intimate_ with two fucking wizards at the same time.

Would James be mad?

Would he understand?

Sure, he'd teased them both relentlessly about ending up together over the years, but things had changed between them—hadn't they? If he had not explicitly told her in a drunken confession, their date would have been all the indication she needed. James had feelings for her—and Merlin only knew how she felt about him

Which was all the more reason this mess she'd found herself in was so fucking confusing.

So each step she took, bringing to life the dull throb between her thighs, only added to the tornado of emotions that swirled within her. Confusion, bliss, and more than anything else—guilt.

She felt guilty. Like she'd done something she shouldn't. Like she was juggling both wizards—fucking father and son, because she was some sort of trollop and not forced into this life by the very entity that employed her.

With her mind stuck, shifting through the chaos that brewed within her soul, Hermione moved down the busy hallway on level two of the Ministry of Magic. She'd barely kept her thoughts from straying, yet again, during another meeting with Tobias Taberknackle that could have been a bloody memo. The poor wizard was senile. How they'd allowed him to continue employment with the DMLE was beyond her, but apparently someone had a soft spot for the elderly wizard.

The soft snap of her heels clicked on the marble floor, and she could vaguely hear it over the low murmur of conversations being held around her. The white noise of what was surely one of the busiest floors in the Ministry was the final push she'd needed to lose herself to her thoughts, letting her mind drift from thoughts of illegal doxy harvesting and towards less than work safe topics.

She'd avoided her office all morning, afraid of the wreckage she'd find in there. Her workload was likely still all over her floor, and she wasn't sure she would ever be able to look at her desk again without remembering the way it bit against her hips as Harry bent her over it, only after getting her off with his hands _and_ his mouth.

Her fingers flexed around the thick file, and she could feel the flimsy parchment crease from the pressure. Circe, help her. The feeling of him inside her, filling her until she was taken over by something that felt so much greater than her body was prepared for still lingered 0n her skin. Like a sunburn that she enjoyed as opposed to abhorred. She wanted to do it all over again, countless times. The rumors she'd heard over the years about Harry's attention in the bedroom paled in comparison to the actuality of being with him.

But no matter how much she wanted it—and Merlin, did she ever, the lingering thoughts of James were a reality check that prevented her from walking down the hall and into Harry's office, demanding they christen his desk the very same way they'd done hers the night before.

Hermione's eyes dropped to the floor, staring at the gleaming black tile as she let her mind wander to thoughts of the older wizard, and the desire that still burned within her only seemed to amplify.

James.

Oh, how this unexpected surprise of his interest in her only seemed to complicate things.

It was bad enough she was supposed to marry them both—but wouldn't it have been at least slightly easier if either of them weren't interested in her? Moreover, wouldn't it have been easier if _she_ wasn't interested in _both_ of them? Because as much as she tried to deny it, she wanted them—both.

Body. Soul. Everything.

She wanted to greedily steal both Potter men for herself and never share. She wanted to claim their family name for her own and never look back. And despite how bloody idiotic this law was, it looked like she was poised to do precisely that.

Rounding the corner, Hermione moved on autopilot towards the lifts that sat at the end of the main hallway. She was only a few yards away from freedom. She would lock herself in her office, clean it, and collect her thoughts on how she was going to inform James about what happened.

He deserved to know, she reasoned. Technically, they were engaged too, and it was only proper. She could take his anger if he was upset. She couldn't say she wouldn't be a little sore if the roles were reserved and he'd been intimate with another witch.

Preparing her speech in her head, how she was going to deliver the news, Hermione didn't notice someone standing in her path until it was too late.

"Oh shit." Her hands instantly rose, clutching the thick biceps of whatever wall of human flesh she'd run into, and the file she'd clutched to her bosom went flying, sending its colourful contents spilling all over the floor around her. "I'm so sorry!"

The apology blurted from her lips as her face flushed. She needed to pull it together. She was set to be married in less than twenty four fucking hours and the absolute last thing she needed was to be so distracted at work she didn't get anything done before her leave began.

"I didn't mean—" The words died on her tongue as she swept her eyes up from the broad chest to peer at the person she'd run into, only to find it belonged to one of the two men her thoughts had not strayed far from since receiving that letter nearly a week ago.

"Whoa, you alright there, love?" James' hands went to her waist, stilling her teetering movement when her knees quivered just at the sight of him. He wore a rich navy oxford with just a hint of iridescent paisley woven into the fabric, and a fitted pair of grey trousers that hugged his muscular thighs in the most sinful way possible. She knew that if she caught a look at his backside, the cut of his trousers would only do wonders to highlight his arse as well.

It should be fucking illegal to look so bloody good, Hermione decided in that moment, her mouth drawing dry as she looked up into his eyes. A light layer of stubble christened his cheeks, and the messy curl to his untamable hair fell across his forehead similar to those American singers from the fifties whose records her mother would often play as a small child.

"Fuck you're handsome," Hermione murmured, unaware the thought had been verbalised until James' smile widened, the apples of his cheeks lifting his frames up on his face.

"Well, that's one way to say good morning." His right hand lifted from her waist, and he brushed a stray curl that had slipped free from the plait she'd forced her hair into this morning. The soft caress sent a shiver down her spine, and despite the slow blush that crept down her neck, she almost didn't feel embarrassed by the slip up. James lifted his eyes from hers, glancing over the top of her head to the witch he'd been walking beside and he flashed her a sympathetic smile. "Go ahead without me, Sariah. I'll catch up."

Hermione looked over his shoulder to find a pretty blond witch standing behind her with a clipboard. Her bright blue eyes peered critically at her over the top of a red pair of cat eye glasses that matched her shade of lipstick. "Are you sure, Mr. Potter? The Minister put great importance on you being present." Her voice was shrill, almost too high to be anything but false and Hermione's hackles raised almost immediately.

"Pius will be fine without me. Besides, someone needs to help Miss Granger pick up her items." James laughed, sweeping his hand around to where her parchment still littered the hallway.

"Oh, no! It's okay. I've got it." Hermione slipped from his hold, as if snapped back to reality by the mere mention of her work and she hastily plucked the lavender colored folder that sat just at her toes before beginning to pick up the loose parchment, stuffing it inside as she awkwardly shuffled away from James to pick up her work. "I'll be—"

"Nonsense." James crouched down and began to gather what he could. "Just get it started, Sariah. I'll be right along," he insisted, giving the witch one last look before waving her off.

It wasn't until Hermione heard the click of the witch's heels that she dared to lift her head again, watching her shuffle down the busy hallway and away from them. "Honestly, James. If you need to—"

"I'm precisely where I need to be. Helping my fiancé is far more important than a bloody meeting on the Magical Marriages regulation. I don't have any update to provide the Minister anyways." James looked up, his hands smoothing out a piece of parchment that had been stepped on and he flashed her a quick grin.

Fiancé.

That single word felt so much fucking bigger than it actually was. It implied he _wanted _this. While yes, the attraction might have been there prior to that fated letter, it was the simple fact that he had so easily accepted her as his other half. She was to take claim beside him not only on paper, but clearly within his heart.

She should be overjoyed. She should feel fucking blessed, or whatever other nonsense the Diviners would spout. She'd been lucky enough to find a union between two wizards who clearly wanted nothing more than to make this bloody work.

But the guilt reared its ugly head inside her, making its presence not only known, but felt deep within her core. She pressed her knees against the floor, letting the cold soak through her black stockings just as the guilt sat like a millstone around her neck, dragging her further and further into its clutches as she watched James shuffle to pick up the rest of her papers, narrowly avoiding the hustle and bustle of foot traffic that never seemed to stop.

"I shagged Harry."

The words spilled from her lips in a half-shout, and as if the stars were aligned in that exact moment, a stark silence followed. She could feel the eyes of passersby bore into her, silently judging her.

James looked up, a brow peaking over the thin rim of his glasses, and based on the confusion that flickered to life behind his eyes, her confession was no clearer to him than it was the people they happened to share the hallway with.

Pushing up off the floor, brushing her hands across her knees, she curled the overflowing file to her chest. "I slept with him—last night." Her voice was choppy with nervous energy, and as she cleared her throat to try and provide some sort of stability, she moved closer to James so she didn't feel the need to shout. "I…we didn't plan it, and I—"

"Hermione, I don't think we—"

"James, I _shagged_ him. In my bloody office. I…oh bugger, I—"

James pushed up from the floor quickly, his hands fumbling to hold onto the parchment he'd just picked up as he closed the distance between them. He reached for her, eyes darting up and down the hallway at the crowd that'd begun to gather around them as her rather sudden, and personal confession.

"—I didn't mean to! Well, I mean I suppose we did, but—" Hermione began to ramble, her mind already adrift in the outpouring of her confession. She barely registered when James began to tug her down the hallway, heeled feet stumbling to keep up as they moved through the crowd.

James moved past the set of double doors that Hermione knew lead to the DMLE receiving counter, and instead, moved farther down the busy hallway until they reached an unassuming door. He quickly opened it to reveal a small conference room and gently shoved Hermione inside before following.

"—on my bloody desk. I can't even walk into my fucking office because...because it'll just remind me of what I did and I feel so bloody guilty. I'm no good when it comes to dating one wizard—let alone fucking two!" Hermione dropped her file onto the small table that sat in the centre of the room and she lifted her hands to her hairline, fingers sinking into her curls as she began to pace, the slow burn of anxiety licking up her throat.

Logically, she knew she was probably putting more focus on this than necessary, she highly doubted James wanted to hear about what she did with Harry. He'd already assumed they'd been shagging for ages, so it would come to little surprise that she'd finally done the damn thing, but guilt was pesky. Like a fishhook, it stuck in her lip, and no matter how hard she tried to pull and shake herself loose from its line, the hook sank further and further until there was no escape.

"Hermione...Hermione!" James lifted his Mahogany wand from his pocket and quickly flourished it at the door. The sound of the lock setting was soon followed by a silencing charm that would contain the high pitch of her confession to just their ears. "Hermione, _calm down_."

"I am calm!" She'd _always_ been a shite liar, but even in her state, Hermione knew this was a stretch. "This is clearly me being fucking calm, James." Hermione dropped her hands lamely to her side as she turned to face him, tongue running nervously across her lips.

"If this is you calm, I'd hate to see you worked up." James stuffed his wand back in his holster at his hip, hazel eyes rolling skyward.

"Why are you being so fucking calvier about all of this?" Okay, maybe snapping at him wasn't the smartest thing she'd ever done, seeing as he'd done nothing wrong, but his reaction—or rather lack thereof—was almost unnerving. She'd shagged his son. In her bloody office! He should have something to say—even a snarky comment would do at this point. "_I shagged Harry!"_

James eyes flashed on her, the smallest hint of fire burning within the depths of the green-brown. "I'm not deaf, you know? I heard you the first time you said it—as did the entire hallway." He tossed his hand towards the door.

"Then...Then say something! _Do something_. Fucking...yell or get mad or...I don't know, make a stupid comment. Just fucking do—" Her hands were midair, lifted in exasperation, fire poised on the tip of her tongue, but the words never got a chance to ignite.

James was on her, his hands cupping her jaw in a firm and demanding way that made her heart skip a beat. Then his lips were on hers—rough, demanding, he wasn't kissing her like he had during their date only a few short days prior. No, this kiss was a new side of James she'd never seen before. The hard planes of his body pressed against hers until she walked backwards to the table. She felt the sharp edge press against her upper thighs just as his tongue swept into her mouth and the taste of his tongue awoke her form her stupor.

One hand slipped into the clipped hair on the side of his head, fingers curling into the untidy locks and she angled her mouth against his to deepen their kiss as her other hand curled into the front of his oxford, holding him close.

She'd asked him to do something, but she would be lying if she'd said she'd expected him to do _this. _Not that she minded, but it was certainly not on the list of options her brain provided as possible outcomes.

He sucked lightly on her tongue as his hands slipped from her cheeks, down her sides, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. His nails scratched lightly against the starchy fabric of her pencil skirt, rippling over the tight cloth on her backside before his hands cupped her, pushing her pelvis into his.

Hermione broke their kiss with a gasp as she sensation of his cock pressing against her hip, already firm and thick. Impulsively her hand dropped away from his chest, sliding over his stomach, nails ticking against each button that held his oxford together until she reached his beltline, and she sunk lower to run her fingers against his tenting trousers—as if to verify what she felt was real.

"Holy shit," Hermione swore, her eyes fluttering open to look up at his face as a deep blush swept across her cheeks. Whatever gene Harry had inherited that gifted him with his masculine prowess, James was _clearly _the giver. Even through the soft cotton of his trousers, Hermione could feel how thick he was, and her thighs pressed together in response.

She shouldn't want more—she'd shagged Harry less than twenty four hours ago, but when she felt James' hand lower the back zipper on her skirt as his face tucked into the side of her neck to lick and nibble on her skin, she couldn't find a bloody reason to stop.

She followed his lead and unfastened his belt as her skirt pooled around her ankles. His fingers tugged at the tight nylons at her waist, attempting to work the sheer stockings down her thighs before he gave up and simply vanished them with a wave of her hand—not that she minded.

She pulled open his trousers hastily, pushing them down, along with his form fitting shorts until they bunched around his knees. This was irrational. Illogical. Ill-fucking-advised. She was supposed to marry both James and Harry, but the bloody law didn't say she needed to do _anything_ with either of them prior to the binding.

Yet here she was, allowing the rough pads of James' fingertips to ghost across her skin as he worked her knickers down her thighs. She'd dreamt of this moment for years now. The feel of his hands across her skin, the taste of his kiss on her tongue. Of course, she'd never imagined it would be like this—hidden away in some cramped little meeting room at the Ministry, but she was going to be damned if something as trivial as having a bed would stop her from finally having him.

They had years to shag in beds—years to figure out what made each other tick. Literal years for him to learn that she liked his lips just a little lower on her neck, or his hands to grip her hips just a smidge tighter. She could teach him precisely what she wanted later because this moment wasn't about perfection, but rather completion.

As much as it pained her, Hermione's hands left his skin, and she reached behind her to hoist herself up on the desk in one fluid motion as her leg hooked around his waist. She pressed her heel into his lower back to pull him closer until she felt the broad head of his cock brush against her cunt.

Hermione leaned back on her elbows, body spread out on the desk, and she watched through half-lidded eyes as his hand snaked between there bodies to help coat his cock in her slick before he aligned at her entrance.

Her lips pressed together, suppressing the needy moan that begged to slip from her throat. Her heel dug deeper into his lower back, urging him forward as her nails scratched against the lacquered desk.

The gentle encouragement likely wasn't needed based on the smolder in his eyes, but it had done precisely what she'd hoped. James pushed inside her, swiftly filling her in one fluid push of his hips. Her moan caught in her throat, eyes widening as her body stretched to accommodate his thick manhood, and when he pulled out only to drive back in with a delicious snap of his hips, her eyelids fluttered and her eyes rolled to the back of her head.

His arms moved under her thighs, draping her knees over the crook on his elbow and his fingertips dug divets into the soft flesh of her thighs as he used her for leverage, driving into her at an almost frantic pace. This was such a stark contrast to their date—where James took his time getting to know her. Now he was almost a man possessed, determined to leave his mark on her—as if staking his claim to not just her body, but her soul.

The silencing spells muted her moans and James' primal grunts, preventing the outside world from knowing what was occuring in the tiny conference room, and Hermione had never been so fucking glad for magic before in her life. Her elbows gave out, even the simple act of holding her torso off the table felt impossible, and her right hand rose to sink into her curls, nails scratching at her scalp as she lost herself to the delirium inducing bliss he was pulling from with each driving thrust of his cock.

"Hermione," he rasped her name, strong arms yanking her back against his body until her arse hung off the edge of the desk. His hands adjusted their hold on her thighs, moving lowe so he could angle her until she was arched off the desk, providing an even deeper angle than before. "Open your eyes. _Look at me._"

He spoke the request in that same tone she'd heard countless times growing up, except now he wasn't demanding she pick up whatever mess she'd made, or insisting that they stay out of trouble. No, he was ordering her to watch him as he brought her closer towards her inevitable demise and she was clearly in no position to say no.

Her eyes cracked open, barely slits through the soft light of the room and her breath caught in her throat. His cheeks were flushed, pink was exertion from his pace, and his brow was already lined with a thin layer of sweat that made his thin wisps of grey look almost silver. But it was the look in his eye that made her teeter closer towards her orgasm. He looked at her as if she were the most beautiful thing on this earth, like she wasn't the mess she knew she was this moment—all frizzy, and smeared makeup. Like she was Aphrodite reincarnated and he a humble parishioner ready to give himself to her in any way she demanded.

"So fucking beautiful….I want to watch you come apart." He slowed his pace as he spoke, leaning over her until his hips were pressed squarely against hers, and his cock hit a depth inside her that made her mind grow fuzzy as the world slipped away.

"James!" she gasped when he ground his hips against hers, bottoming out. She swore she could feel him in her bloody stomach. This angle, the weight of his body pushing the air from her lungs, and that scent—the heady, tangy aroma of their coupling tainting the air—it was all too much.

"Again…" His lips brushed against hers as he whispered, noses nudging closer. "Say it again."

Her hand moved from her hair to his cheek and she pushed his glasses up off his face where they'd been precariously dangling, resting them them on top of his head. "James….fuck, don't stop. I'm so close."

As if he could read her mind, he moved in shallow, short thrusts, slamming against that part of her that made stars burst behind her eyes. Her hands slipped down to the back of his neck, nails curling into the soft skin on his neck as she cried out when the dam finally burst. Her body quivered with unrepressed need and she swore she could feel her magic slip from her skin and sizzle in the room as she arched off the table, her breasts pressing into his chest.

Her pussy spasmed around his cock, desperate to hold him inside her as he drove into her still, working her through her orgasm until the need for his own release took him, too. She could feel his manhood pulse inside her as thick ropes of his come filled her. Distantly, she could feel their combined fluids leak down her body, leaving a mess on not only their skin, but the floor beneath the table. While part of her might be slightly embarrassed, the most sedated—and completely satisfied part of her—couldn't find the will to pull out her wand to vanish the mess. Not while he was still inside her, stretching her body so perfectly.

Her name was panted against her hair, and she could feel his lips brush across her sweaty brow. He spoke her name like a prayer, as if repeating it would bring some sort of clarity to his soul—and perhaps what they'd done already did. Her eyes fluttered closed as she wound her arms around his neck and pulled him until the entire weight of his body rested over hers, and her thighs locked around his waist, not ready to let him slip from her grasp.

They lay there, curled over the table for what felt like hours—waiting for their heartbeats to settle from the gallop that had overtaken them. In the end, he was the first to move, gently tapping at her knee in a silent request to release him and Hermione reluctantly obliged.

When his softened cock slipped from her body, she felt an unintended ache bloom to life within her at its loss. She scooted off the table, her thighs pressing together in a meek attempt to prevent his seed and her slick from leaking from her body. Shaky hands lifted to smooth across her curls, feeling the mess they'd made of them before she began to work the plait loose so she could redo it before leaving the office.

James stuffed himself back in his trousers, and Hermione couldn't help but notice that he didn't bother to cast a _Scourgify_. That small fact rang in her mind like a victory bell. "You...okay?" he questioned, his voice still low and gravely.

Hermione nodded, eyes dropping to the floor in search of her knickers, and her cheeks burned red as she adjusted her skirt lower so she wasn't so exposed in front of him. She'd just shagged James, the object of her darkest desires, Harry's fucking father, her bloody fiancé less than twenty four hours after doing the same with his son. The guilt that had plagued her all morning was gone— now replaced by something decidedly more confusing.

Would he think badly of her?

Worse—what did she think about herself?

She had never been in a position like this before: dating two men at the same bloody time.

Was she wrong to give into these desires?

Was she some sort of harlot because she'd been with both of them in damn near succession?

What would her friends think?

What would her bloody mother say if she was still around?

Her teeth worried her bottom lip, eyes glazed over in thought as she stared at the black tiled floor. It wasn't until James knelt before her, her knickers held in one open hand as he nudged her ankle with his index finger, that she was brought back to reality.

Her right hand went to his shoulder, holding him to stabilize her as she stepped into the garment and stood still when he worked them up her thighs and onto her hips. His hands smoothed around the band, thumb stroking over the soft cotton, and he leaned forward to press a gentle kiss against her thigh where dark red bruises were just beginning to form from his fingertips.

"I didn't...want our first time to be like this," James confessed, peering up at her through thick lashed as he pulled down her skirt, smoothing the fabric across her hips and backside.

"Me either." Hermione's voice was barely above a whisper. Her hands moved to his hair, and she smoothed the wild locks back into place, fingers working through the curled ends, twisting them just so until they lay flat. His head pressed against her abdomen, and his eyes fluttered closed at her gentle touch. The corners of his lips lifted in the smallest hint of a smile, and although she couldn't be certain, she could almost swear she felt a rumble in his chest that felt something akin to a purr.

"I'm going to be honest...I'd do it again if given the chance." James only cracked open one eye, peeking up at her with his confession, and when Hermione only laughed in response, some of the worry about what he would think of her slipped away.

James rose from his kneel, strong arms wrapping around her waist, and he pulled her into his chest, leaning down to press a soft kiss on the crown of her head before he nuzzled his nose into her curls.

Hermione wound her arms around his tapered waist, eyes drifting shut as an indescribable warmth began to fill her soul at his warm, protective embrace. She let the clean scent of his cologne fill her senses as she buried her face in his chest, letting it calm her until her heartbeat slowed to a steady thrum.

"So...I suppose this means we're even now—Harry and I." James spoke against her curls, a breathy laugh rumbling his chest before he pressed another kiss to the top of her head.

Hermione winced, which only seemed to further fuel his laughter, and she pulled back to look up at him, her lips pressing together as she tried to suppress a grin. "Merlin," she breathed, shaking her head. "What the fuck did I get myself into?" The question more for herself than him, but his eyes sparkled with mischief nonetheless.

"I'm imagining more than you bargained for," he teased, his hand moved up her side, sliding over her curves until he could grip her chin with the crook of his index finger and thumb. He leaned down, his lips ghosting across hers, and Hermione's eyes fluttered closed at the simple touch. Her arms wound tighter around his waist and she shivered when his breath ghosted across her skin. "But judging by your lack of rebuttal, just enough to keep you coming back for more."

Hermione didn't bother responding—mainly because she knew what he said was entirely accurate. This relationship was asinine, at best. Once bound to both of them, she could only imagine what the papers were going to say about their unconventional union—but Merlin be damned, this was exactly what her body, and her heart craved.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

_Song: Lights Up by Harry Styles_

So, not sure I need to preface that—what with the E/M rating buuuuut, the next couple chapters are going to use that rating to it's fullest potential -wink wink, nudge nudge-. I will continue to put warnings up at the beginning of those chapters so you are aware, but I figured I'd let you know.

That being said, thank you for all the kudos, love, likes, feedback, etc. It's so nice to have people invested in this little fic. thanks to dreamsofdramione, IKEAwhatyoudidthere and WeasleyWildflower for being my team—they're simply the best and I could not do this without their support (and reassurance that, yes, people are as depraved as I am).

You can find my on facebook Msmerlin Eff! Add me. Ask Me. I love meeting all you lovely little bunnies.

until next time. xx


	9. Chapter 9

_Kiss me under the light of a thousand stars  
__Place your head on my beating heart  
__I'm thinking out loud  
__That maybe we found love right where we are, oh_

* * *

It had been a little over a day since the conference room incident, and Hermione had yet to face either of the Potter men since she'd hightailed it out of the DMLE and sequestered herself away at Grimmauld Place—giving her boss a terrible excuse about wedding preparations to get out of work a day earlier than intended.

She couldn't be in her office, not with it still in shambles from her romp with Harry, and now she couldn't even visit the second floor of the Ministry without the vivid reminder of what had occurred between her and James. No, she needed a day—preferably several, but only one would do—to gather her thoughts about what it all meant.

Did sleeping with both James _and_ Harry make her a bad person—or just a slag?

She tried to reason with herself that she was simply following the Ministry's orders, but she only allowed herself to indulge that illusion for half a moment, before quickly shutting down that train of thought. Because _fuck_ the Ministry.

Fuck Minister Thickness and his bloody Decree. Fuck the Ministry for forcing her into this situation, and fuck the Puritons that caused the Pendleton Witch Trails—because without that bloody event, there never would have been a need for the Magical Marriages Act.

The truth was, that beyond the obvious contempt she felt about this whole bloody situation, there was a tiny part of her, hidden deep inside, that was almost grateful for the sudden application of the ancient law. Without it, she might have never learned of Harry's true feelings for her, or James' hidden interest. Without it, she would have had to choose which side of her heart the follow instead of being open to accepting them both.

Sirius, ever the supportive bastard that he was, helped her come to terms with what she'd done after her so not calm-and-collected confession over a shared bottle of red wine once she'd arrived home. He was mourning the loss of bachelorhood when she'd found him in the kitchen, and she was more than willing to join in on polishing off the bottle as a means of medicating the anxiety that brewed within her.

After an unnecessary amount of teasing, and just a smidge of mockery, Sirius was quick to point out that this law _might_ have unlocked something within her that she would have otherwise denied. She'd long felt attached to Harry, their friendship took off running from their very first encounter on the Hogwarts Express, and they'd been inseparable ever since. She'd risked life and limb for him, and even gave up the most important thing in her life—her parents—for _him._

And James? Her undying devotion to the Potter patriarch was as unwavering as her need to stand beside Harry. She'd followed him into firefight after firefight during the throes of war, and hung off his every word as if they were liquid heroin since long before she could name the butterflies that rioted to life inside her stomach when he smiled at her.

She had been hopelessly devoted to them both—as though there was some invisible force tying her to them—long before the law was revived from the dead. Sirius reckoned it might be a bit of the old magic binding her to them, residual force left over from the first round of Magical Marriages. It wasn't uncommon for the families whose surnames had once graced the pages of _The Pureblood Directory_ to have wisps of magic guiding them to partners whose magic meshed with their own.

She'd thought it was all bullshit—more Divination crap that people put too much faith in. But even she could admit the prospect was a bit nice. Having a logical explanation for her attraction to both of them was like balm on a fresh wound. Helpful, but it didn't stop the bleeding.

Nonetheless, Sirius assured her that shagging both James and Harry did not make her a trollop. She was, after all, just having relations with her intended husbands. No one would blink twice if they'd overheard talk of it.

With her growing anxiety quelled, just slightly, Hermione recruited Sirius to help her pack up the last of her items from Grimmauld Place while they finished the bottle of wine and discussed other areas of concern—such as his own pending marriage.

Ginny, as far as Hermione knew, was still on tour, and thus popping on down to the Magical Marriage Registry wasn't going to be as easy as it was for her and the Potter men. Remus and Sirius had scarcely talked since they'd received their letters, opting to hide under the illusion of 'avoidance means it doesn't exist' until absolutely necessary. And based on the look in his eye when he spoke about his best-mate and Ginny, he was no closer to accepting his fate than Ronald had been the morning he'd opened his letter.

They'd nearly gotten all of her belongings boxed up by the time sleep called them both away from their final night as flatmates, and Hermione opted to snuggle in bed with the wizard who'd become her family over the last five years. It would be the last time she could curl up in his four poster bed and accept that familial comfort only he'd been able to provide for her since the end of the war.

She didn't do it often—typically only on nights when her nightmares were the worst, but Sirius never argued. He never judged, nor spoke of their little sleep overs. Because she'd wager a bet that he needed it nearly as much as she did. Instead, he looped an arm over her shoulders, tucked her against his chest, and played with her curls until they both drifted off to sleep with only the sound of the crackling fire guiding them.

Those moments, the last lingering hours of her single life, were already memories, flitting just on the forefront of her consciousness as she stood in the lobby of the fourth floor, chewing nervously on her painted thumbnail as she waited for Harry and James.

At her request, they weren't making a big deal about their binding. With no family to speak of—beyond Sirius, of course—Hermione wasn't exactly keen on donning a white gown and traipsing down some aisle. No, this wasn't a celebrated union, but rather a contract the Ministry was forcing upon them.

Which is precisely why she wore black.

The colour of loss—of mourning. It wasn't as if she wasn't happy to have been paired with James and Harry, they were honestly the _only_ good things to come out of this mess, but it was her way of leveling a subtle _fuck you_ on the powers that be. She knew the Ministry would require pictures of their auspicious union—proof they would provide _The Daily Prophet_ that the war heroes were following the law, and she would be damned if she wore even an ounce of white.

Her eyes flashed to the lift when the chime of the bell echoed around her, and she held her breath as she waited for the gates to open. Her hand dropped from her lips and she drug her thumb across the skirt of her dress to remove any remaining salvia from her skin.

James was the first to exit, a too wide smile plastered across his face as he glanced over his shoulder, clearly in mid-conversation based on the chuckle of laughter that made its way towards her. He wore a pair of fitted black trousers with a grey oxford. His business robes were draped over his forearm, the hem hovering mere centimeters from the ground. A tie sat around his neck, the windsor knot still tight at his throat. He looked like a walking billboard for Armiston's Robes for Wizards—all sculpted and defined in the well fitting suit.

On James' heels, Harry followed. His hair was as wild as always at the end of his shift, stiff peaks of black poking out in odd angles that made her want to card her fingers through the messy locks until she pushed it into submission. Where James' locks held a hint of curl, Harry's was bone straight, which only seemed to add to his boyish appeal. He was freshly shaven—lightly popping by the lockeroom to clean up post-shift based on the gleam of his skin, which was likely doused in a heavy coat of that aftershave that made her knickers wet.

Harry wore his Auror robes, per usual. They were parted, his hands tucked into a dark pair of denim trousers, and a sensible burgundy jumper stretched across his broad chest. He had taken her request to dress down to heart—something James had clearly not followed, and yet despite the casual attire, Harry looked just as delectable as his dad.

Her attraction to each of them was so different. James was all man—large, hulking, his arms like pillars that would protect her through the night. Harry was the boy next door—the same one who stole her heart and vowed to love her until the end of time.

Her mouth grew dry as she watched them move side by side out of the lift, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. Merlin, these adonises was going to be hers in just a few short seconds. Most witches would literally die to be in her position—and she was half tempted to pinch her own thigh to make sure she wasn't dreaming.

"'Mione!" Harry was the first to address her, his right hand lifting from his pocket to give her a small wave as a broad smile stretched across his lips, his glasses lifting from the apples of his chest. He double stepped ahead of James, and upon reaching her, wasted no time wrapping her in a warm embrace.

His hands moved across her hips to her back, fingertips brushing over the swell of her arse as he leaned down to capture her lips in a kiss that made her forget whose air she was breathing. He kissed her with such reverence, such devotion that it made her knees quake. Her hands instinctively went to his chest, running across the soft fabric of his jumper, and she lost herself in the moment, letting the world fade around them.

However, the mind-numbing effects of his kiss were cut shorter than either were prepared for when one of Harry's hands dipped lower, curling over her backside to press her hips forward until they seated with his, James quickly cleared his throat—an air of disapproval marking his cough.

Harry laughed as he pulled away, emerald eyes sparkling mischievously as he looked over her shoulder. "Now, now, old man. Don't be jealous." Harry winked at his father before he looked down to Hermione and pressed a gentle peck on her nose.

"Hardly." James scoffed. Before Hermione's mind had time to catch up from the snail's pace it'd fallen into during Harry's brief snog, she was pulled into the other wizard's arms. James guided her by her elbow away from Harry, spinning her into him until her hands rested on his chest, her body tucked into his protective hold.

"You look beautiful, Hermione," James whispered, hazel eyes flicking down her figure, before he leaned in and swept his lips across her cheek, the trail of breath raising goosebumps on her skin until his mouth was just against her ear. "But then again...you always do."

She was going to die—death by overindulgence of two impossibly handsome wizards. They'd have to find a plot in Godric's Hollow for her, preferably under a nice shady tree, so they could visit her from time to time. The Ministry's plan for repopulation was simply going to fail because they had not taken into consideration the amount of sexual tension they were creating when signing up witches to marry not one, but two fucking wizards. It would have been hard enough with either Potter man—but both? Two was like asking for all her drinks to be doubles. Two was like adding petrol a house fire. Two was more than she would reasonable take—but Merlin help her because she wanted to die trying.

She struggled to find words, her mind swirling through the fog of their lust inducing touches and she only managed a meek little noise when his fingers slipped up her arm to tuck a curl behind her ear.

Her tongue felt as if it was imbued with lead, thick and impossible to move, and when James pulled back to look in her eyes, she was pretty sure she would have collapsed had it not been for his arm around her waist holding her upright. Circe, he was handsome—and Harry, she could see him just out of the corner of her eye wearing that charming grin as he watched them.

They'd clearly conspired to make her faint—or perhaps something more wicked and debauched. She was more certain now than ever before.

"You ready?" James lifted a brow, his head cocking to the side, and when all she could do was nod in response, she felt the rumble of his laughter against her chest before she heard it. "Cat got your tongue, love?"

"No, two incubi." Hermione's voice cracked, and she quickly attempted to clear her throat as she dropped her gaze to try and conceal her slow blush.

"Ha! I've been called many things—but that is not one of them." James loosened her grip on his waist as he guided her beside him—careful not to let go completely. His thumb dragged across her hip bone through her dress, stroking her as he peered towards the set of double doors that would lead them to the newly minted Magical Marriages Register. "Well, I suppose we'll just go get this over with...then...go home?"

_Home._

The word was spoken so innocently, as if the hidden meaning wasn't as obvious as a pink Erumpent in the room. He meant Godric's Hollow, what was to become not just the place she'd rest her head, but rather _her home_. Home, in this context, also didn't just mean the physical manifestation of the word—no, it also meant what they would do once they'd arrived at their _home._

The letter, and subsequent information published in _The Daily Prophet,_ had made the expectations of their Magical Marriages binding explicitly clear. They were to perform the ceremony, sign into the registry, and go back to consummate their union. Specifically, in close succession.

She'd tried not to think about the details during the day, but her mind couldn't help but drift there. How would they make this work? She was supposed to shag both of them—wouldn't that be...weird? Logistically, how would that even happen?

"Sounds good to me." Harry's voice cut through the fog, and when she felt him take her hand, slowly lacing their fingers together, Hermione turned to look at him with a small grin. She was still under James' arm, her body tucked into the crook of his arm, but she held Harry's hand close to her hip, not letting him drift too far. She wondered if perhaps this might be a metaphor for how this would all play out in the end. She'd have both of them close—supporting her through difficult times, and celebrating with her during the happier ones.

As James guided them through the double doors, his thumb stroking gently across her skin, each step towards the sour faced receptionist lessened the unease that had coloured her mind all day. It was almost as if their mere presence provided a sense of calm—a sense that everything was going to be alright. Maybe this was meant to be, and maybe, just maybe part of her believed all that bullshit Sirius had spouted the night before.

"We have an appointment." James flashed that Potter smile at the receptionist as he laid his coat on her receiving desk.

"Name?" The receptionist popped a cheek full of gum, chewing loudly, obnoxiously, not even bothering to lift her eyes from the issue of Witch Weekly laid out in front of her.

"Potter, Granger." James gave Hermione's hip a gentle squeeze as he turned his attention away from the less than cordial witch, lifting his brows in a single wag, before he glanced back up to the clerk.

"That's only two names." The purple haired witch sighed with a heavy roll of her blue eyes before she finally looked up at them. She lifted her wand from its stand on her desk, waving it in the direction of a large bookcase. From it, a thick binder levitated under her direction, and she let it fall loudly on her desk before continuing. "Magical Marriages are three or more. So, unless two of you are already married, I'm going to need more information."

A bubble of nervous laughter crept up Hermione's throat, and before she could prevent it, it slipped from her lips, earning her the ire of the already cantankerous clerk. Hermione's free hand lifted to her lips, eyes widening in surprise by the impulse.

Hermione cleared her throat, whispering, "Sorry." She felt Harry's hand squeeze hers, silently telling her it was alright, despite the cutting glare of the witch who continued to pop her gum.

"It's Potter, Granger, Potter then...I suppose," Harry supplied, moving up to the desk. He pressed an elbow into the hard surface as he peered over the ledge to look at the summoned binder. "But like he said, we made an appointment."

"Two Potters?" The clerk, who had already begun to flip through a binder that was nearly a foot thick, peered up through her lashes incredulously.

"Yes." James nodded, a thick brow lifting.

"Huh…you two related or something?" The clerk lifted her hand, pointing lazily between Harry and James.

"Oh, Circe." Hermione dropped her hand from Harry's and she moved to cover her mouth as a new wave of laughter bloomed to life.

She'd heard about people who fell into hysterics during high stress situations, but she'd always struggled to identify with the involuntary reaction. She'd been through her fair share of stress inducing situations, and she'd never once felt the urge to so much as snort, but as she watched the clerk give her a sneer that the late Severus Snape would have been proud of, well, it all made perfect fucking sense. "S-Sor—Sorry. I just—oh gods."

James pulled his arm from around Hermione so he could slide his hand through his messy curls in that tale-tell sign of frustration that both he and Harry employed. "Yes. Something like that." He forced with a tight smile. "Did you need anything else from us?"

The receptionist rolled her eyes with another heavy sigh as she reached under the lip of desk, pulling out a long, thin plastic basket she tossed onto the desk in front of James. "Wands and IDs in the bin. I've already paged the officiant and register. They'll meet you in Room A just down the hall to your left."

One by one, James, Hermione, and Harry set their belongings in the basket before they moved down the hallway. James lead the charge, clearly at least vaguely familiar with the layout of this department while Harry and Hermione, still hand in hand, walked behind him.

The floor looked just like the others in the Ministry. The same gleaming black tiles, same drab wallpaper, but there was one alarming difference. On the wall, plastered between office doors that contained the names of the Diviners and bureaucratic slave horses that made up the department were propaganda posters proclaiming the benefits of Magical Marriages.

The smiling faces of beautiful witches surrounded by two equally good looking men taunted her with each step she took. Gilded slogans such as '_Magical Marriage Brought Me Love'_ and '_Twice As Many To Rear Our Children'_ glittered in the soft artificial light. Had she not abhorred the Decree and what it represented—her freedom to choose—then she might've been impressed by the lies that Thickness was willing to spread in order to make this work.

These posters, so carefully crafted, were likely going to be plastered all over the Alley by the week's end, touting, not just the benefits of Magical Marriages, but encouraging those affected to hurry down and do exactly what the three of them were doing that very moment.

James slipped into the chambers and held the door for Harry and Hermione to follow. "Well…this is charming." The room was draped in white swaths of fabric and twinkling lights. A vine crafted arch sat against the far wall, and there were three rows of chairs, clearly intended for an audience some would surely invite. From the ceiling, pink rose petals drifted, magically disappearing once they hit the floor only to repeat their slow desecent once more.

"It's definitely something." Harry stifled his laugh, brows lifting over his frames and he shook his head, slowly sliding his hand from Hermione's so he could walk the aisle towards the arch to inspect the décor.

"You've got to be bloody kidding me," Hermione breathed. "They're trying to…to romanticize a forced marriage? Whoever thought this was a good idea is a bloody idiot."

"I'll make sure to pass your message along to the Minister." A familiar voice drifted from the doorway, and Hermione immediately spun around. Kingsley Shacklebolt was a vision in purple, his robes sweeping the floor, hiding his feet as he moved into the chambers with a playful smirk. Atop his bald head sat a square golden cap, and around his shoulders, a matching sash hung, designating him as one of the lucky few who had been chosen to perform the binding ceremonies.

"Kingsley!" Hermione met him halfway in a tight hug, her arms snaking around his thick middle as she pressed her cheek against his chest. "How—I thought you were still in Argentina?"

"I was—came back two hours ago just so I could have the pleasure of signing off on this union." He returned the hug with a tinkle of laughter as he stroked a hand across the curls covering her shoulders. "You're dressed far too somber for such a providential union, Miss Granger."

Hermione snorted as she pulled away. "You know damn well why, Kings."

Kingsley laughed in response, a curled index finger nudging her chin affectionately before he turned to greet James with a clapping hug. "And look at you! Handsome as always. You're new bride's youth clearly had an effect on you." As he teased his old friend, Kingsley pulled back to sweep his eyes across him, hands still clapped on his shoulders.

"Hardly. Tea, and Pepper-Up potion do wonders to counteract my lack of sleep." James and Kingsley had spent decades working alongside one another in the DMLE, often competing for the same advancement opportunities—which is why, when Kingsley suddenly left the department at the end of the war to take a mid-level management position within the Wizengamot Legislation Division, James had nearly been beside himself. Kingsley had been posed to take over the DMLE—he'd been a far better candidate than James, but it appeared Kingsley obviously knew something the rest of them didn't.

He'd aligned himself with the inner workings of the Ministry, using his Auror know-how and street smarts to help push through legislation to help better the wizarding community—though clearly stopping the Magical Marriages Act was beyond even _his _control.

"Ah yes, that old cocktail. I've heard if you mix in a bit of whisky it helps it go down better." He clapped his hand against James' shoulder affectionately before turning to embrace Harry, who'd wandered back up the aisle to greet the wizard.

"It's nice to see you, Kings." Harry pulled him into a tight hug and gave him a firm pat on the back before pulling back with a wide smile.

"You as well, Mr Potter. It's wonderful to see you _not_ in an infirmary bed." Kingsley winked, before shooting a knowing glance at Hermione. "Well, what do you say we get this over with then, hmm? First Magical Marriage of 2003—and between three war heroes to boot. I know a couple reporters who will be scrambling to get their hands on a copy of your marriage certificate for publication." Kingsley gestured toward the arch as he glanced between the three of them expectantly.

"Uh…no. I'm not getting married under _that_ thing." Hermione shook her head, her thin arms crossing over her chest.

"And where would be a better option?" Kingsley humored her, cocking his head to the side, and knocking his cap off balance just enough to slip across his bald head.

"I don't bloody well care. The hallway is better than that fairy light mess you lot put together." Hermione scoffed, jutting her chin back towards the door they'd come through.

"The hallway?" James tucked his hands into his trouser pockets, a smirk tugging on the corner of his lips. "I always knew you were a no-frills kind of witch, but surely you wouldn't mind making a small concession for your wedding day?"

"Look, I don't care where we do this, just so long as we marry—the hallway, the canteen, her office…" Harry's voice trailed off as he waved his hand in front of him in a small rolling gesture.

"Her office?" James' eyes lit up and Hermione watched as he turned to face his son with a knowing grin pulling at his lips. "I did hear you're rather fond of her office. I'm partial to conference rooms myself, but her office might not be such a bad idea. What do you say—"

"Here is fine!" Hermione darted past Kingsley with wide eyes. Grabbing hold of both Harry and James' arms, she began to tugging them towards the arch with a newfound urgency. The quicker they got through this, the quicker they could leave the bloody Ministry, and she could continue pretending her office encounters with Harry and James most definitely had not happened.

Kingsley's bellow of laughter followed her down the aisle, and when they reached the archway, Hermione let go of her wizards and turned to watch Kingsley approach with a languid swagger that was almost unnerving. He pulled out his wand and a small leather-bound book, casually thumbing through the pages as he approached.

"Where is it…no no, that one won't do." Kingsley mumbled, pink tongue moistening his lips. When he came across a particular passage, he let out a small hrmph in triumph before tapping the book. "Here it is. Alright, now let's have the rings."

"Rings?" Hermione blurted out, her nose wrinkling. There had never been any mention of needing rings. She'd been so focused on just making it through the work week that she had not even put an ounce of thought into needing a wedding band for herself or the wizards.

"Oh…I uh…I don't think—" James began, a hand lifting to nervously ruffle his hair.

"Right here." Harry reached into his pocket to withdraw four silver bands. They lay in his palm, small and unassuming, but even from where Hermione stood, she could make out the soft etchings of ancient runes carved into the sides. Joy, life, gift, protection, and fertility. They were fairly standard when it came to magical wedding bands, yet the meaning of each rune didn't feel contrived nor generic.

Hermione's bottom lip quivered as she watched Kingsley tap his wand to the rings, and the etched runes began to glow green, before fading to a pretty shade of turquoise as the cleansing spell washed over the precious metal. "Harry, you didn't have to."

"I know, but…you were both so busy and I figured we might as well make our marriage a proper one." Harry shrugged, the corner of his mouth lifting in a small smile as a soft pink tint flushed across his cheeks. He picked up the two thicker bands—both clearly meant for James and himself, and he pressed them into her palm, before handing one of the remaining more delicate ones to his dad.

"Thanks." James smiled as he tucked the band over his index finger, letting his thumbnail catch on the runes as he looked down at the piece of jewelry with a fondness colouring his face.

"James, please hold out your left hand, palm up." Kingsley extended his wand, flourishing it in the air until a small iridescent pillow of magic shimmered to life in the space between the four of them. James did as instructed, laying his hand atop the pillow, and at the pressure of his palm, the magic began to hum to life, the silvery wisps changing to a soft yellow sheen.

"Now, Hermione, your hand in next, palm up."

Hermione hesitated, rubbing her palm across her hip to wipe any moisture away. This was it—they were actually doing this damn thing. She had spent a lifetime thinking about getting married, wondering about what type of gown she'd wear, who would attend, and of course, the man she would marry. Never in her wildest dreams did she think _this_ was going to be how it happened. Gulping down the lump that had settled in her throat, she cast one shy glance at James before lifting her palm to lay it on his.

The magic pillow beneath them grew brighter, richer, shifting into a deeper yellow at her added presence. She could feel the tickle of the magic creep up her arm, slowly sinking into her skin. It was similar to that pins and needles feeling that she got when she sat on her foot for too long at the library. Except instead of pain, it felt almost euphoric, like she wanted to dive headfirst into its hold and let it overtake her.

"Now you, Harry, face down though. Lock your hand over theirs."

Her heartbeat grew to a steady thump of anticipation as she watched Harry lift his hand and lay it over hers. All at once, the magic pillow burst to gold, enveloping their interlocked hands.

The magic coursed through her, pulsing through her veins as if it were blood, clouding her senses until she could almost feel Harry and James' heartbeat inside each thump of her own. Her soul felt full, as though she was alive for the first time instead of just wandering the planes of this earth in search of something she wasn't even aware she needed.

Kingsley wasted no time beginning the enchantment, speaking the soft Celtic vows as he began to guide the tip of his wand around their hands, but knowing full well that he was talking, the hum of his voice sounded foreign and far away—like he was across the Ministry atrium at closing time as opposed to just beside her.

Each verse he spoke brought forth a rope of magic that wound around their palms, layer upon layer of multi-colored strings of magic bound them together physically, but also spiritually. She could _feel_ them inside her, their magic brushing and combining with her own until she wasn't sure where hers ended and theirs began.

Hypnotized by the enchantment, she lost herself to its glittering pull, and it was only when Kingsley sealed the spell, and the shine of magic sunk into their skin, that she finally lifted her eyes to look up at James and Harry. What she saw stole every ounce of air from her lungs.

Their eyes were glowing—in their respective colours, but they were positively aflame—sparkling, brimming with an outpouring of magic she'd never seen before. Her lips parted as she took in a shaky breath, and suddenly the room around them faded into nothing. She forgot about Kingsley standing just a few feet in front of her, she forgot about the shitty fairy lights, and the vine archway. She even forgot that the union was mandated. Her body—no, her soul called to them, her magic rushing out of her from every pore and seeking to twist and tumble with their own until the end of time.

Kingsley lowered his wand to his side, sliding it into the holster at his hip. "This is typically the part where we say you can kiss the bride but—"

Before Kingsley could finish, Hermione moved towards James, her hand slipped from their grasp and she wrapped her thin arms around his neck as she pulled him down to her by the back of his neck. The urgency in her kiss wasn't one sided, the instant their lips met, James' strong arms curled around her, his fingertips pressing divots into her skin as his tongue swept into her mouth.

James took control, his tongue leaving no stone unturned as he positively devoured her. The air in the room sizzled and snapped with the outpour of magic, and the fairy lights flickered. Her body melted into his, momentarily losing herself in the kiss until she felt a hand on her spine. The brush of knuckles running across her vertebrae, the pulse of magic that brushed against hers was a quick reminder of who else stood in the room.

_Harry._

She broke away from the kiss by the time she felt Harry's fingers twist into the curls at the back of her head, and he guided her away from his dad and straight into his arms. His hand stayed rooted against her scalp, twirling her curls lightly around his fingers as he tilted her head back, his other hand ghosting across her side.

Her hands pressed against his broad shoulders, fingers stroking across the defined muscles, and when Harry leaned in to simply brush his lips across hers, a low whimper slipped from her tongue.

She needed more—not just a sweet kiss. She needed to breathe the same air as him, she needed that same mind-numbing, soul-devouring sensation she'd had just moments earlier with James. She needed to get lost in the pull of _both_ of their magic more than she needed the breath in her lung.

Harry's nails bit against her scalp as he tugged on her curls, arching her backwards until she was forced to cling to his shoulders, and her tongue slipped into his eager mouth. Distantly, she could hear the sound of bulbs popping, but it wasn't until Harry reluctantly broke their kiss far sooner than Hermione wanted that she saw the destruction their pulse of magic had left in its wake.

Half of the fairy lights that hung around them had burst, and the rose petals falling in their never ending loop were tossed around the chamber, covering the marble floor. The pews of chairs had been scattered about, as if a tornado had ripped through the room during their binding.

Under normal circumstances, she might have been embarrassed by the bout of accidental magic that reigned destruction on the decorated chamber, but as she surveyed the wreckage, still in Harry's arms, a slow self-satisfied grin spread over her lips. It served them right, putting such stupid decorations in this bloody room.

* * *

**Author's Note:  
**

_Song: Thinking Out Loud by Ed Sheeran_

So for you non-American folks out there reading, next week is gonna be weird due to the holiday (Thanksgiving)-there should be a posting! No sure how many (one or two) but I can promise you will get the at minimum one chapter next week. Gird yer loins bunnies! The wedding night is upon us!

until next time. xx


	10. Chapter 10

**Warning: This chapter is NSFW**

* * *

_Fingertips puttin' on a show  
__Got me now and I can't say no  
__Wanna be with you all alone  
__Take me home, take me home_

* * *

Hermione stood in the living room of Godric's Hollow, eyes drifting around the room. She'd been here countless times before, but now there was a newfound rush of curiosity that bid her to examine every nook and cranny of what was to become her new home—as if she was truly seeing it for the first time. How long had James owned the decorative vase on his bookshelf? Were the pictures of Harry on the mantel always non-magical? And where on Earth did the small porcelain figure of a Rhinoceros come from—better yet, why did James have it displayed near the picture of Nana and Papa Evans?

"You okay, love?"

James voice stole her from her inspection and she turned to find him in the entryway, holding a chilled bottle of champagne in one hand and three flutes curled betwixt his fingers in the other. He still wore his suit from earlier, except it was now untucked, the bottom hem of his oxford wrinkled and loose against the crisp front of his trousers.

They'd arrived at Godric's Hollow approximately ten minutes prior, and Hermione had barely moved from her spot where Harry and James left her on the hearth—like some sort of timid cat, getting used to her new surroundings. Which was particularly foolish, considering she'd been here more than enough times for it to feel like home long before the official designation was given. Weeks of every summer had been spent running about the first floor shoulder to shoulder with Ron and Harry. She'd found solace in the guest bedroom numerous times as they grew into teenagers. And she'd nearly spent two months living here post-war before she made a home in Grimmauld Place.

But everything felt _different_ now.

She was married to James _and _Harry. This house, the same one she'd traipsed through countless times before now felt more important—more meaningful. This was her _home_. One she'd make with Harry and James. One where she'd spend her years, and although it shouldn't feel any different than it did a week prior when she got pissed with Harry and Ron, it did.

"Yeah." Hermione smiled, stepping tentatively off the hearth as she brushed her hands across her hips. She toed off her shoes by the small rack beside the mantel, nudging them into place beside James' loafers and Harry's boots, and her teeth sunk into her bottom lip at the sight. It felt so domestic already—seeing the three pairs of shoes side by side. Something so meaningless and inconsequential now felt as if it held a secret meaning for her future.

"I...uh...I was just thinking, that's all." Her voice warbled as she spoke. She moved across the room, bare feet sinking into the soft rug as she moved towards James. He was already at the coffee table, body bent at the waist as he struggled to set down the three glasses without knocking them over. "Here, let me help." She laughed as she moved beside him and took the glasses, setting them down one by one on the table next to the small collection of their wands.

After the binding ceremony, the three of them had been escorted back to the receptionist by Kingsley, where they had to sign the Magical Marriages contract. It not only acted as the paper record of their magical union, but was also a lovely reminder of the rules.

_Relations between witch and wizard are to occur once weekly._

_The three members of the Magical Marriage must have a shared residence._

_Registration with the Magical Marriage Registry is mandatory._

_Consummation of the Magical Marriage between all parties must occur within eight hours of the binding ceremony._

The list had continued beyond that, but Hermione wasn't able to focus on anything beyond the consummation clause—because of fucking course they were mandating she shag her husbands within an allotted time frame. Logically, she knew it had to do with the type of magic that bound them together, but she couldn't help but notice its less subtle context. They wanted them to shag as often as possible to increase the likelihood of conception.

The joke was clearly on them. Hermione had been on the yearly potion since sixth year, and had taken it nearly seven months ago now, which meant she still had several months of worry free sex without the added nag of potential Potter-Granger babies.

"What about?" James twisted the cork off the champagne, and when its loud _pop _echoed in the room, Hermione jumped. He poured the three flutes, careful not to spill even a drop before he lifted a glass for her.

"Just...well, all of this I suppose." She nodded her head in a small thank you before looking around the room once more. "It feels so different now—I've been in this room a thousand times, but I don't think I ever really noticed what was in it before."

"You don't like James' interior decorating?" Harry was taking the stairs two at a time, having opted to put her overnight bag up in the guest room, and change into a pair of black joggers before joking them. He moved quickly across the room, pressing a swift kiss on her cheek before swiping his flute from the coffee table. "_Weird_, I'd always thought he had a knack for design," Harry teased, taking a small sip.

James blushed, hazel eyes nervously flickering around the room, as if trying to assess where he might have made a mistake. "You can change whatever you'd like...I mean I'm partial to _some_ stuff in here, but we can figure it out...make it home for all of us."

"No, no, no," Hermione rushed, reaching out with her free hand to lay it on James' arm and she gave it a gentle squeeze. "No, it's perfect...I mean I might suggest...replacing a couple of the vases with some more age appropriate fixtures, and add some books—"

"_Some?_" Harry snorted, his brows lifting over his rim at her incredulously.

"Okay, _a lot_ of books to your shelves." Hermione waved her hand towards Harry, giving him a small smirk before turning her eyes back to James. "But it's perfect. You've done an amazing job of turning this house into a home for you both—I wouldn't dare change it."

James' heart seized in his chest as she spoke, and when she returned her hand to his arm, her thumb sweeping across the skin on his forearm reassuringly, he thought he might soar away. He'd always known Hermione was perfection—but this was almost too much for him to even comprehend. She was uprooted from the place she'd called home for the past five years, forced into a marriage with not only him, but his son as well, and even through it all, she only wanted to add some books to his library and replace some of the dust covered vases he'd been gifted decades ago?

Merlin, he didn't deserve her. Especially not since his mind was stuck on getting her out of that bloody dress as fast as possible so he could bed her _properly_ this time.

"Well, don't feel like you can't," James whispered, the corner of his mouth lifting in a small smile as he held her gaze, letting himself get lost in the amber pools of honey that were her eyes.

"Yeah, it's your home now, too…though, let's be honest, it kind of has been for a while now." Harry looped his arm over her shoulder and he pressed a tender kiss to her temple before he lifted his glass out in front of him. "To the Potters...newly christened and old," he toasted, playfully winking at James before nudging Hermione with his hip.

James laughed, lifting his own glass in front of him. "To the Ministry, for coming up with this crackpot idea and forcing Harry and my hand at admitting how we actually feel about Hermione."

Hermione felt her cheeks flush as she dropped her eyes to stare at her hands, both curled around her champagne flute. She let her painted index finger tap against the stem as she tried to suppress the wave of magic that threatened to swallow her whole. It wasn't just their affections for her that felt overwhelming, but the rising realisation that what she felt for _both_ of them was the same. They each held equal real estate in her heart, and how'd she'd gone this long without realising it was truly miraculous.

"To our future." She looked up before lifting her glass, her eyes drifting nervously between her husbands. She swept her tongue across her lower lip as she gathered the courage to finish her toast. "May it be filled with happiness we didn't know already existed."

She clinked her glass to the already lifted pair, and watched as both Harry and James' smiles broaded. There was no circumventing the Decree—the binding spell had already been performed; perhaps falling in line with trying to make the most of this situation wasn't necessarily a bad idea. She'd already shagged both of them, they were _clearly_ compatible, so she figured fighting her feelings—the attraction she felt for them, at this point—was rather counter-productive.

"So...how are we going to do this?" Hermione didn't even bother taking a sip from her glass as she lowered it. She couldn't, not when her stomach was so alive with butterflies, twisting and rioting inside her.

Harry swallowed down a large mouthful, his brows furrowed in confusion as he set his flute on the coffee table next to the sweating bottle of champagne. "Well, we already told you that you have the guest room…"

"No, I meant _tonight_." Hermione twisted the stem of the flute between her index and thumb.

"Well, I mean if you're hungry we can probably just order take away. It's probably the easiest after everything today."

"Merlin, Harry. _No_. I meant tonight—as in finishing the binding," Hermione rushed out, and when Harry didn't seem to catch the hint, a frustrated little noise slipped from the back of her throat. "Fuck, okay, how am I going to shag both of you?"

James, who had been polishing off his champagne coughed into his glass, sending droplets of the beverage sputtering towards Hermione and Harry. His hand rose to wipe the dribble from his chin as he set his glass down with a muttered apology.

"Oh!" Harry's cheeks flushed red as he wiped the splatter of champagne from his arm. "Uh…" His eyes darted to his father before he looked back to Hermione, his hand lifting to twist his wild black hair into soft peaks on the crown of his head. "I...uh...I mean—"

"Perhaps it might be best if we," James took a deep breath, clearly trying to compose himself as a deep stain of red washed over his cheeks and began to spread down his neck, "..if we use my bedroom...considering it might be...easiest if we—ahem—well, um...if we all go at once."

_We all go at once._

Hermione's eyes widened at James' implication and she quickly lifted her glass to her lips, draining it of its contents in three large gulps, letting the slight burn from the fizz tickle her throat as she nodded. Of course—_of course,_ they should do this all together. The stipulation was that they had to consummate the marriage within eight hours—but also they had to do it together. Together was perfectly logical—it made complete sense. It would be far less awkward than one of them waiting in the bloody hallway to rush in and shag her once the other had finished like some Knockturn Alley harlot. Because shagging them both, _together_, was clearly less untoward.

"That might not be a bad idea," Harry agreed, the warble in his voice doing little to hide his own nervous energy. His hand came to rest on her shoulder, and as Hermione dragged her eyes away from the hole she was burning in the carpet to look up at her best friend, the clear concern glittered in his large, emerald eyes only made the tension grow. "If you're okay with it…that is."

"Absolutely. We can figure out another way if you'd rather not," James was quick to tack on.

Bless Harry for being so bloody concerned for her, and James for having the courage to suggest what they all knew needed to happen. Shaking her head, Hermione slipped from under Harry's touch to set her empty glass down on the coffee table.

It was logical. It would provide for the more efficient means of completing the binding ritual to them. And truth be told, after her experience shagging them both, she wasn't sure how bloody capable she was going to be navigating rooms between back to back sessions. It made perfect sense, and this was the small mantra she clung to that could provide even the slightest bit of explanation for what she was about to agree to. Because there needed to be a reason beyond the outrageous blood of desire that pooled low in her belly, soaking her knickers clean through at the idea of sharing a bed with both of them.

"I think that," she paused to take a slow breath, hands pressing against the flat of her abdomen to help quell the spasm of anticipation that clenched her stomach, "it makes the most sense. If you don't mind, I'd like to go freshen up a bit...before."

James nodded slowly, hazel eyes taking on a slight glaze as his Adam's apple bobbed the length of his throat. She had to physically subdue the urge to reach across the narrow space between them and snog him as she had done back at the Ministry when she felt the flare of his magic caress hers.

"Of course. Take your time." Harry lifted his lips in the tiniest hint of a grin and he motioned towards the staircase behind her. "Is there anything I can get you?"

A mild sedative wouldn't be a bad idea, but she figured it might be frowned upon, so instead she shook her head. "No, thank you. I'll meet you upstairs?" She began to back away from the pair, bare feet slipping across the rug as she made her great escape towards a temporary freedom where she might be allowed to let the excitement and anticipation wash over her free of judgement from either wizard.

"Sounds good."

She took the stairs two at a time, hurrying towards the guest bedroom that was now to be _her_ room, and once the door was shut, and locked, she allowed herself to slump against the hardwood, her palms pressing into her eyes. Merlin, Nimue, and Circe—what the bloody hell was going on? Over the course of a week, her relatively peaceful and boring life had turned on its head.

She shagged her best friend, and his bloody father _in succession_! She was now married to both of them, and moments away from finishing their Magical union by shagging them both. It had to be a joke—or perhaps some depraved fever dream. There was no way this was real.

The bloom of white burst behind her eyes and she took slow, deep breaths to calm her heart rate as she tried to control her magic that rolled and twisted inside her, demanding she go downstairs the give herself to their touch. It needed them—_she_ needed them, and perhaps it was that fact that scared her more than it should.

She'd never felt so whole or complete before. She'd never known what it meant to feel aflame under love's caress, but those fleeting moments after their binding, where she allowed herself to give into the euphoric feeling of their magic mixing with her own, she finally understood what the poets from long ago meant. The feeling they gave her felt so new, so foriegn, and yet already so addicting.

It was similar to that snap of new magic. It tingled in her fingertips, made her pulse race, and her mind grow fuzzy, but it was much more, it made her crave more—like some sort of drug. Made her want to give her entire body over to the feeling and lose herself in its embrace. James and Harry wouldn't judge—would they? They'd clearly felt it, too. And the rest of the world? Well, they didn't have to understand.

Pushing off the door, she dropped her hands from her face and blinked the blear from her eyes as she moved to her overnight bag that Harry had set on the full size bed in the middle of the room. Unzipping it, she withdrew a simple purple nightgown and set it on the bed.

While packing, she'd purposefully left her more risque night clothes at Grimmauld Place, opting for an old tried and true cotton spaghetti nightgown. At the time, she told herself it wasn't necessary to look the part of a virginal blushing bride on her wedding night—she'd already shagged them both, but now, as she disrobed to change into said nightgown, she felt woefully underdressed.

Slipping her stockings down her legs, she balled the thin nylon and set it on top of her discarded dress. Her knickers soon followed, and she opted to keep them off because—well, it wasn't as if she'd needing them anyways.

Shimmying on her nightgown, the well worn cotton brushed over her already aflame skin, pebbling her nipples, and bringing forth a new rush of heat between her thighs. She pulled her curls down from the plait, and carded her fingers through the mess until she felt at least a little satisfied with how they hung.

It was now or never—and although she wasn't sure she would ever be fully prepared to walk into James' bedroom at the end of the hall, she steeled her stomach and forced all the inner anxiety into submission.

She was Hermione Granger, after all. She'd helped vanquish the Dark Lord and she'd ridden on the back of a bloody dragon! Two cocks shouldn't frighten her.

Opening the door, she moved down the hallway towards James' bedroom. His door was slightly ajar, and she could hear the soft murmur of hushed conversation as she pushed it open.

James was standing at the foot of his bed, his oxford unbuttoned and untucked, a plain white shirt visible beneath, and he was working his cuff loose.

Harry was sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes glued to the carpet, hands wringing nervously as he bounced his legs with untampered energy. His head snapped up at her entrance, and as his eyes swept over her body, pupils dilated until little green remained.

"Wow…" Harry breathed, tongue sweeping across his lower lip. "You look beautiful."

A pink blush tinted her cheeks as she leaned back against the door, the soft clink of the lock catching felt ominous, as if there was no turning back from this moment. "Thanks...I probably should have gotten something new." She looked down at her nightgown, grimacing when she noticed a small hole in the hem.

"No, no. It's perfect—you're perfect," Harry insisted. "Come here."

James stayed silent, busying himself with removing his work attire, trying to provide her and Harry some sort of space to begin this dance that would carry them through the night. He kept his eyes diverted as he shrugged out of his oxford and layed the pressed garment across his dresser, fiddling nervously with his cufflinks before placing them in the small glass dish with a delicate clink.

Hermione moved into Harry's arms, her knees brushing just on the inside of his thighs and he widened his seat to guide her closer until her body was just inches away from molding to his. His hands moved across her cotton covered thighs to her waist, thumbs stroking affectionately across the jut of her hips as he looked up at her. "You okay?"

Her heart soared. The question was so simple, so innocent—but so _Harry._ For even with the pulsing need of desire that was so palpable between them, he was willing to push his _need_ aside to check on her. Underneath that chiseled exterior, and years of time spent on the force keeping the wizarding community in line, he was still that same boy whose heart was far bigger than his body could ever contain.

Hermione nodded, lifting her hand to cup his cheek, thumb stroking across the sharp line of his jaw, marveling not only the man he'd become—but how bloody handsome he was. He was hers. After fourteen years of friendship, countless years or pining, and denying her love for him was anything _more_—Harry was hers. For now, for forever, until the fates decides they should separate.

"Yeah...I'm just nervous," she whispered, her voice airy and light with unbidden anxiety, as though it was a secret. Her heart was beating so fiercely beneath her ribs that she was certain James and Harry could hear it the moment she'd entered the bedroom.

Harry's eyes softened, his hands sliding up to find that natural rest on the small of her waist and he pulled her closer until her hips pressed against his chest, as though the pressure of his body against hers would be able to transfer some of his strength and courage into her. "What can I do to help?"

"Kiss me."

The light in his eyes shifted, and that boyish smile that had been lifting his lips twisted into something more wicked at her request. His hand moved up her side, the pull of his palm traversing the curve of her figure lifted the hem of her nightgown slightly, revealing more of the milky skin of her thighs for just a moment. His fingers tunneled into the side of her loose curls, and in one fluid motion, he guided her head down towards him as he straightened his spine.

His lips were featherlight against hers, brushing twice in a sweet appetizer for what was about to come. Hermione's eyes fluttered closed, and her arms wrapped around his neck, elbows resting against his muscled shoulders as she leaned down to apply more pressure until he seemed to relent to the need that had been ever present since the moment their magic was bound back at the Ministry.

His tongue swept into her parted mouth, brushing, enticing her to play as the hand on her hip wandered over her lower back, stroking soft patterned across her spine. He leaned back on the bed, pulling her with him until she was forced to straddled his waist.

The rush of cool air prickled her skin as her nightgown shifted up—surely exposing not only her backside, but her cunt to James, who was still standing behind them. Harry's hands moved lower, fingers curling into her nightgown, fisting the soft fabric in a slow pull until his hands found skin instead of cotton and she felt him swear into their kiss.

She shivered under his touch, his hands moving to grab fistfuls of her backside, squeezing at the supple skin, before sliding up her back. He pooled her nightgown on his forearms as he touched her, traced her, trying to chart a map of her skin so he could forever remember this moment.

Her mind was foggy, thick, lost in the haze of blossoming desire. Between his kiss, his slow, explorative touch, and the feeling of his cock between her legs, grinding against her in the most delicious way possible, her world felt like it was slipping away—narrowing to the singular moment.

Before she knew it, she was on her back in the centre of the bed, and Harry's mouth was no longer on hers, but rather working down her body, licking, nibbling down her neck and collarbone as his hands forced her nightgown up around her middle.

"Mione," he breathed against her chest, his head nuzzling between the valley of her breasts as he moved lower, chin pulling at the loose collar, trying to explore more skin for him to sample. "Can...I?"

_Could he?_ Could he what? Her mind struggled to comprehend what on earth he could possibly be asking permission for when his hand slipped around her hip and cupped against her mound—his thick fingers pressing lightly on her folds, coating him in her dripping desire.

Her magic pulsed, vibrating out of her in thick waves at his touch, and all she could do was part her legs farther as a low whinge spilled from the back of her throat.

Merlin, yes! Yes, he could do whatever the fuck he wanted as long as he just kept fucking touching her.

But despite her cues—as though they could be interpreted as anything but 'touch me right fucking now'—he didn't move. At least, not in the way she wanted. His head lifted from her chest, half-lidded eyes boring into hers with an undeniable need glazing them. "I need you to—"

"Yes," Hermione rushed out, her tongue sweeping across her bottom lip. She lifted her head from the bed, watching with wide eyes as he shimmied down until his head was just at her hips. His fingers parted her glistening folds, and she felt his breath ghost across the sensitive skin of her sex before she felt his mouth on her. "Oh fuck!"

She collapsed back on the bed, curls splayed around her head as her right hand sunk into Harry's hair, holding him in place as he licked and nibbled on her clit. She'd had wizards go down on her before—the concept was far from fucking new, but Merlin's cock, they hadn't had this sort of finesse that made her toes curl and her mind go numb.

When his tongue flicked lower, probing her entrance as his nose nudged her clit in time with the soft thrusts of his tongue, she was fairly certain she saw stars. Deep within her body, she could feel that familiar tension build low in her belly, just beyond the reaches of his tongue. He was driving her quickly towards a release her body was so clearly prepared for.

His name was a prayer, spilling off her tongue between throaty moans as she began to rock her hips against his mouth. Her mind fell into that blank space of pre-orgasm where nothing mattered, where the world was empty, and the worries of her day were vanished. Distantly, she could feel the bed beside her dip, and the brush of skin against her side, but it wasn't until she felt a second set of hands on her, easing the nightgown up and over her that she finally opened her eyes.

James was beside her, down to just his shorts, and based on the distinct bulge that tented them—her noises were evidently having an effect on him as well. He worked the gown from over her head with a practiced ease, leaving her entirely bare.

Leaning back on his haunches, his hazel eyes roamed down her body, drinking in the sight of her spread across his bed like she was the most beautiful thing in the world. Be it the brush of his and Harry's magic against hers, or the fact that she was literally seconds away from climaxing, she allowed herself to believe the reverie in his gaze. Despite the blemishes that marked her skin from years of war, the iridescent stretch marks that ran across her hips from growing too fast, and the way her stomach held a softness she could never lose, no matter how thin she was, she let herself believe she was perfect, even if just for the two of them.

Her free hand lifted from where she'd been fisting the bedspread, and she reached towards James' face, bottom lip quivering. Harry's tongue flicked across her clit before teasingly tracing around the pulsing bud as the fingers that parted her labia moved to brush across her entrance, applying just enough pressure to cause her to let loose a low whinge.

Shifting on the bed until he lay beside her, James allowed Hermione to guide him to her by the gentle touch at his cheek. Her fingers stroked through the soft layer of facial hair, nails scratching lightly against his cheek as she kissed him. She felt his hand slide across her arm and over her shoulder, gliding down to the supple skin at her breast before he molded his hand around it, gently kneading.

"J-James," she breathed into his lips, her eyes slamming shut as she felt his magic pour into her soul through his touch, causing her skin to flush and her body to vibrate.

"You're close...aren't you?" His words were low and rough as he whispered against her lips.

She nodded, unable to articulate anything beyond a moan when his fingers plucked at the peak of her nipple.

"Don't fight it...come for Harry. Come for us_."_

_Us_.

The three of them. Bound. Marriage. Magic. The words reverberated in her mind, echoing through the chasm of bliss that Harry's mouth on her cunt brought forth, until the weight of their meaning pushed her over the edge. Her hips canted against Harry's eager mouth, the hand in his hair curling, holding him for support as she lost herself to the drudging wave of her climax.

Her cunt spasmed, clenching at nothing as she arched off the bed, and Harry wasted no time slipping two fingers inside her, curling them as he beckoning her toward another release. The pressure rose quickly, her body filled with an entirely new need as his tongue wove unrelenting patterns over her clit, sucking lightly until she felt that consuming wave of pleasure pull her under once more, in such quick succession she wasn't even sure it was physically possible.

Her body felt aflame, magic rippling through every limb, slipping from her fingertips and toes as she cried out—it sought out Harry and James', pulling theirs with her own in a twist and tumble—combining within her soul until not an ounce of space remained where they didn't exist within her. Nothing mattered—not what anyone would think about their union, not the worries that plagued her mind, not even the logistics of how this was going to work.

She was made for them. The way their magic wove together was too perfect, too seamless to be anything but destiny. Somewhere deep inside, shew knew it to be true. Sirius' talk of ancient magic, and the Diviner's card reading had some form of truth, because there was no possible way she could imagine feeling this bloody alive—this bloody perfect without both of these wizards in her life.

She felt two sets of hands on her body, and the press of two sets of lips traversing her skin in an intoxicating pattern of nibbles, licks, and kisses, coaxing her trembling body onto her side. Her cheek pressed against a firm chest, and she could vaguely make out the intoxicating scent that had fueled her teenage fantasies.

Lifting her head until her chin rested against his sternum, Hermione cracked open her eyes to look up at her best friend turned husband. She didn't know how—or even when it happened, but he was bare before her. His eyes were half-lidded, brimming with overflowing need, but there was something _more _sparkling within them—a nameless devotion shining so bright it stole the breath from her lungs.

His hand was at her thigh, guiding her by her knee to curl her leg around his hip as he scooted closer. She felt the brush of his manhood through her sex, her essance already coating her thighs with need. A slow whine slipped from her lips as he slotted himself through her parted folds, coating the length of his cock in lazy shallow thrusts.

She wanted—no, _needed _more. Her magic was already swirling like a maelstrom inside her, waiting to overtake every emotion and thought in her brain if he could just give her what her body desired.

She felt hands on her back, the divine pressure of thumbs coaxing her tense muscles into submission in slow sweeping strokes, before they curled around her hips, holding her in place just as Harry aligned himself at her entrance.

Her body melted, surrendering to both wizards every whim—ready to wave the white flag on even life at this point as long as it meant they continued. She leaned back into James, angling her neck towards him as she felt his lips press open mouthed kisses on her nape.

Her fingers curled into the skin on Harry's shoulders when he slowly pushed inside her, filling her aching cunt until his hips were flat against hers. She could barely breathe when he began to move, his hands on the small of her waist, just above where James' held her, keeping her firmly planted between their bodies.

As if taking advantage of her temporary stupor, James hands moved up, skipping over Harry's, sending hot thrills of fire rippling through her as he made his way to her breasts, where he began to twist and roll her nipples in time with Harry's short, shallow thrusts. Her pussy was swollen and eager, still spasming with aftershocks from her orgasm as Harry drove into her.

Her hips rolled against Harry's, canting to quicken his pace as she tipped her head back against James' shoulder, completely surrendering to their will. She shouldn't have loved the feeling—being enveloped by not only their magic, but their hard bodies—as much as she did, but in the moment, she could find no fault in having the pair worship her.

"'Mione," Harry groaned her name, and a primal need rippled through her consciousness, begging to hear the throaty groans and grunts of pleasure as he filled her over and over again.

Her hips canted against his, each small swirl and rock eliciting a noise and shiver until Harry found his own release. His fingertips drove divots into her sides as she felt his cock pulse within her, hot ropes of his seed filling her. His forehead dropped to press against hers, his glasses askew and foggy from their coupling, and as she lifted her hand to card through his sweat stricken hair, she didn't even mind the layer of his sweat that collected on the webbing of her fingers.

A swell of pride grew within her, she'd be able to bring The Chosen One to his knees, metaphorically speaking, and although it shouldn't have pleased her as much as it did, the idea did something funny to her ego. She was never one to brag, often wrinkling her nose the few times Ron or Harry had used their fame to their own benefit—but now? Now, she wanted the world to know just who this wizard belonged to, and what kind of effect she had on him.

Leaning forward, she caught Harry in one last kiss, pouring the entirety of her love for him into that single moment. And although she was keenly aware of the wizard who lay molded behind her, she didn't let James' presence lessen the impact of what she felt for Harry. Because the truth was, as much as she felt for this man in her arms—the same could be said to the one behind her.

James' hands left her aching nipples, sliding over her stomach to press against her hips until Harry's cock slipped from her tender core, and she rolled onto her back between them. Pulling her lips from Harry's, she nuzzled against him, letting her actions speak as she parted from him to turn to James.

Using the momentum his touch provided, Hermione swung her leg over his hip and gently pushed on his chest until she lay over him, her dripping cunt settling over his cock.

His hands trembled on her thighs, curling into the supple flesh in untampered anticipation as her lips found his in a slow, lazy kiss. She took her time letting her tongue explore his mouth, brushing, twisting and slipping against his, as if trying to steal the very breath from his lungs.

The feel of his touch on her skin enraptured her—made her crave to feel nothing but his and Harry's touch until the fates stole her from this planet. He guided her hips up, creating just enough space between them so the head of his cock could press against her core and in one firm push, she sunk down on him under his command.

The stretch of his cock filling her aching cunt elicited a harsh gasp—the burn of bliss was lined with the hint of pain from her previous coupling, but the combination was heady nonetheless. A reminder that she belonged to not one, but both wizards.

James took control, despite her being above him, guiding her hips in slow revolutions as she sunk down on his cock, brushing his head against the places inside her that made her limbs twitch, and her eyelids flutter.

Her hands moved off the mattress to curl around his shoulders, and she pulled up, reluctantly leaving their kiss to change the angle of the coupling until he was so deep she swore she could feel him in the low of her belly as she rode him.

She watched his face twist and contort with bliss, his lips parted, eyes glassy, and the tell-tale tremble in his thighs let her know he wasn't far from his own orgasm. Biting her bottom lip, Hermione reached down, laying her hand over one of his at her waist and she guided it over her skin until their fingertips reached where their bodies joined.

"Please," she whimpered, rolling her hips into his touch. "Please...I want to come with you."

As if under a siren's spell, James followed her request, applying just enough pressure to the swollen bud to make her eyes roll to the back of her head. Every snap of her hips brought his fingers sweeping around her clit. The wet sound of their coupling filled the room, providing the most erotic noise she'd ever heard when combined with his soft grunts of her name.

When his fingers picked up their pace, swirling and rubbing almost frantically, she knew he was only moments away from sealing the bond of their union—but as ready as her body was to join him once more in nirvana, she needed _more._

"H-Harry." She spoke his name even before she could make sense of what she needed, and her hand lifted from where it'd claimed space on James chest to reach for the wizard.

Harry had been laying silent, watching her come apart as he recovered from his own climax, and despite the clear exhaustion written over his face, he pushed himself up to a tall knee, scooting closer until she could drape her arm across his shoulders. An unspoken question was written in the lift of his brows, but instead of telling him what she needed, she pulled him into a kiss.

She needed them both—their combined touch—to find her end. And as their magic poured into her, she lost herself for a third time to the mind numbing bliss. This time, a white hot magic exploded behind her eyes, bursting into technicolor stars as she cried into Harry's lips. One hand sunk into his hair as the other sought out James' hand, clinging to them as she came apart.

She could feel him stiffen beneath her, and her body rose when he lifted his hips from the mattress to grind into her as his cock shot hot ropes of come inside her quivering cunt.

Just as before, their magic swirled inside her, except this time, the completion of their binding magic took hold. Like puzzle pieces snapping together, she could feel her soul align with James' and Harry's, and the feeling of completion that had filled her after their Magical Marriage flooded her once more. Except this time, there was no fade to black.

This time, it stayed rooted, deep within her soul, embedding into her magic.

She was theirs.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

_Song: Slow Hands by Niall Horan_

Sorry for the minor delay-this is a holiday week in the US and the madness has already set in! I hope the build to this moment was worth the wait. 3 there is much...MUCH more to come.

Until next time. 3


	11. Chapter 11

_Yellow diamonds in the light_  
_And we're standing side by side_  
_As your shadow crosses mine_  
_What it takes to come alive_  
_It's the way I'm feeling I just can't deny_  
_But I've gotta let it go_

* * *

A fierce ache between her thighs pulled Hermione from her dreams, and although there seemed to be no bloody clock anywhere in James' bedroom, she wagered to guess it was far too early to be awake based on the way the moon still lingered in the early morning sky. Soft hues of pink and purple had already begun their creep across the dense, glittering backdrop of nightfall, ushering in the dawn of a new day.

And as she lay silent in James' king sized bed, her naked body sandwiched between her sleeping husbands, Hermione couldn't help but marvel at how fucking accurate it felt for her life in this particular moment.

Gone were the worries of how they'd manage to make this work. Instead, she was still with an almost hope that this—whatever this nameless sense of fulfillment was that was woven between them through magic and love—would be enough to last them forever.

By all intents and purposes, this shouldn't work. Harry was her friend, and James his father, but she couldn't find a reason why it couldn't as she lay between them. They fulfilled a part of her soul, each bringing something to their relationship she wasn't aware she needed in combination until she was given the opportunity to have _both._

And now that she'd had it—living her life without each of them fulfilling her in this almost biblical sense felt asinine and unrealistic. She was made for them—like Niume for Merlin. They were the air she needed to breathe, and the food that would nourish her. They were her world.

Pulling her eyes away from the painted sky, she looked over her shoulder to Harry, who lay curled against her back, his arm draped loosely over her hip in a possessive hold. His face was blank, not an ounce of tension in his brow or lips—so different from the last time she'd watched him slumber while in the Forest of Dean.

Although the circumstances between these moments were vastly different, she couldn't help but wonder if this restful slumber he'd fallen into was a direct result of the magic that flowed between all three of them. Had the tight pinch of discomfort not stolen her from sleep minutes earlier, Merlin only knew how long she would have stayed asleep—wrapped in her wizards' warmth.

James, who'd taken up the space in front of her, shifted in her arms, nose nuzzling against her curls spread out across the pillow. His hand, which had somehow moved to cup her breast while sleeping, slid across her skin to rest on her ribs.

Despite the light grey that peppered his dark hair, and the light wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, James looked younger—as if their magic deaged him during the binding process. Reaching up, she brushed her fingers across his brow, shifting the curl of his fringe back across his head.

Be it fate, or just pure luck, Hermione couldn't be certain what had brought these two into her life. Sure, the Decree had put this into motion, but by all accounts, it didn't have to work, at least not in the way that it had.

If last night was any indication of how their marriage would work—and she hoped it was, she prayed it would be filled with love, with support, and without any jealousy or guilt. Despite the myriad of confusing and nameless emotions that swirled within her, guilt over wanting both of them was not one.

She would have been hard pressed to admit it before, but now, in the afterglow of their union, she would have told whomever asked that she belonged to both James and Harry Potter—and they, in turn, belonged solely to her.

She lay in silence, hoping the soft rise and fall of their chests would lull her back to sleep, but by the time the morning birds began to sing outside James' window, she knew her chance of drifting off was gone.

She needed to shower, to wash away the thin layer of sweat that still coated her skin, and clean the evidence of both of their couplings from between her legs. They were supposed to move her boxes from Grimmauld Place today, and she highly doubted she would be able to manage the multiple trips up and down flights of stairs with the flares of pain. Taking a pain potion probably wouldn't be a bad idea.

Slipping from beneath the covers, carefully maneuvering over Harry and out of James' grasp, Hermione made her way to the en suite bathroom. She kept her footfall light, trying her best to prevent waking either wizard—she might not be able to sleep, but her own insomnia shouldn't mean they had to wake.

Softly shutting the door, she flicked on the switch, and blinking through the bright burst of light that filled the bathroom, she tried to gather her bearings as she looked around the room. She'd spent countless hours in this home—but never once had she ventured into James' bedroom, let alone his bathroom. A mild curiosity swirled within her as she peered around, examining the contents littered across the counter.

For as neat and tidy as James was, his bathroom was absolutely atrocious. Discarded clothing and towels formed small hills against the perimeter of the floor, and empty vials lay scattered over his countertop. Moving to the large shower, she fiddled with the tap, turning the dial until the little worn arrow pointed to the painted red indicator before she glanced at his products.

Multiple bottles of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion, something she was all too familiar with, Erin's Tooth Polish—while not her preferred brand, but it was far better than the Fairy Mint Harry insisted on using—and Hornbee's Hair Gel covered the countertop, scattered between combs, hair brushes, and what appeared to be hair clippings from what she hoped was his beard.

Just beside the faucet sat his cologne bottle, haphazardly laying on its rounded side. Picking it up, she watched the azure liquid inside swirl around before she lifted it to her nose, inhaling deeply, letting the alluring scent fill her lungs. As if on cue, memories of being pressed against his chest the night before roved through her mind—the feeling of him between her thighs, his cock stretching her, his touch across her skin—reverent and demanding, and his magic filling her with each fall of her hip against his. The memories assaulted her consciousness, pulling forth desire that pooled low in her belly, coaxing her essence to collect in the soft patch of cropped curls at the apex of her thighs.

Setting the bottle down, her hand trembled as she pushed her wild locks back, slow shaky breaths filling the room as she backed away from the counter, trying to will her body back into submission.

She'd _just_ consummated their union.

She didn't need to shag either wizard for seven days—she shouldn't presume, shouldn't get her hopes up. Harry and James were still asleep, and before any further coupling with either wizard could be had, she knew they all still needed to discuss how this marriage would work.

Opening the glass door of the shower once more, a billow of steam rolled across her feet, filling the small washroom as she stepped under the hot spray of water with a hiss. It wasn't until the spray hit her shoulders, assaulting her aching muscles, that she realised how bloody sore she felt.

Her back was taut, rippled with tension, and the muscles that lay hidden under the softness of her middle pulsed as she leaned forward to brace herself against the cold tile wall with her forearms.

The hot water ate away the layer of sweat that clung to her skin, washing the night's filth from between her thighs and she allowed her eyes to drift close—letting herself temporarily get lost in blissful warmth coating her skin.

Just as her shoulders relaxed, the muscles in her lower back releasing the last of the tension that had built up, the sound of the shower door opening, and the rush of cold air bit at her skin, causing her to jump as she looked over her shoulder.

James, sleep still thick in his eyes, stepped under the spray. Rivulets of water soaked his untidy hair, flattening it against his scalp as he gave her a small, sleepy grin. "Morning." His voice was low, gravely, clearly just warming up. "Hope this is okay...we're married after all."

Hermione nodded, temporarily dumbfounded by his forwardness as she turned around to face him. Her arms crossed over her bosom in a meek attempt to hide her nakedness from him—as though he wasn't already intimately acquainted with her body.

She allowed her eyes to run down his form for the first time, absorbing his nakedness in a way she hadn't had time to last night. His chest was large, thick with muscle, and there was a light layer of hair that coated not only his pecs, but also appeared sparsely across his rippled abdomen. But it was way lay beneath the hair that caught her attention.

Scars.

Countless little blemishes spread across his torso, marring the sun-kissed tan of his body. She could recognize the type of spell used on some, for she bore similar star and crescent scars on her own skin, but there were many others she couldn't place.

Reaching out, she pressed two fingers against a small hexagon mark that sat on his ribs, her fingers touching the iridescent skin curiously. What, or rather, who had caused it? How long had it been there? How long had any of them been there?

Some looked more fresh than others—pink and new with dittany healed skin. She walked her fingers across his skin, brushing across his chest to trace the map of his scars. "I didn't think you did patrol anymore," she whispered, eyes flickering up from his chest to look at his face.

His tongue swept across his lips, eyes already ablaze, and yet despite the forwardness of slipping in her shower, he hadn't made a single move to touch her. His hands hung loosely at his side, but she noticed a subtle twitch in his fingertips when she fanned her hand across a large, star-shaped scar on his chest.

"I don't. At least, not often. Not after…" His voice trailed off and his eyes cast down as he gave a lazy gesture towards his thigh, where a large molten purple scar lay. It looked eerily similar to the one on her side—rippling with dark magic even years after healing.

Her eyes widened, surprised she'd missed it in the heat of their night, and she reached out to run her fingertips across its length. "Dolohov?"

"Karkaroff. During the first war." As her hand moved along his thigh, stroking across the taut skin, venturing dangerously close to his half-hard manhood, she felt him stiffen beneath her touch, his cock twitching.

Curiosity begged her to ask him to tell the tale—and every other story of the marks his body held, wanting to know everything she could about the wizard she'd been bonded to—but seeing the effect her touch was having on him made her magic ignite within her, begging to mix with his.

She sucked her bottom lip between her mouth as her hand ventured higher across his muscular thigh until she could touch his cock. Slow, gentle, exploratory, she allowed herself to feel his length, letting the velvety hardness slide under her palm as she wrapped her fingers around him.

She hadn't gotten a good look at him before, but now, in the bright light of the bathroom, she was able to truly see—and feel just how big he was. Her hand was dwarfed by his length, already so thick and firm beneath her touch, and as she squeezed her fingers to curl around him, testing the firmness of his cock before stroking him, she heard a low groan slip from his throat.

"Merlin...Hermione." He reached out, bracing a hand on the wall beside her head, and she looked up, watching his eyes flutter shut in time with the slow stroke of her hand. "I—if you keep touching me...I won't be able to stop myself."

"What if I don't want you to?" The words slipped from her mouth of their own accord, and her eyes widened at the realisation that what she said was the truth. She wanted him to interrupt her shower every morning just so she could admire his physic. She wanted to feel the softness of his skin beneath her fingertips, and the heat of his body against hers. But moreover, she wanted _him._

Not just to have him—although that part could not be denied, but rather to know everything about him. To hear stories from his youth, and visit his childhood home. She wanted to flip through the photo albums of his past, and learn what his favorite things were. She wanted, more than anything else, to be as close to James as she was to Harry.

She wanted to make this marriage to _both_ of them work.

She wanted to fall in love with him.

James cursed, hazel eyes flicking between hers before he leaned in, his free hand sliding to curl around her hip as his mouth met hers in a slow, demanding kiss. The weight of his body pushed the air from her lungs, and James drank it greedily from her lips, wasting no time slipping his tongue into her mouth in slow sweeping strokes.

Her hand was forced up his body, arms curling around his neck as he pressed into her until her back was firm against the cold tile wall. Her fingers sunk into his wet hair, the spray from the shower beating against his sinewy back, pushing rivulets of water over his chest to pool between their bodies.

His hands forged unforgiving paths across her sides, leaving a trail of his magic across her skin in their wake. Deep within her, she felt hers grow restless, eager to twist and combine with his until they were closer than physically possible.

He cupped his hands around her thighs, fingers pressing small divots into the supple flesh as he hoisted her up with practiced ease. She gasped into their kiss, her lips sliding from his as her legs locked around his waist, ankles crossing on his lower back, and her arms tightening around his shoulders.

"James!" Her nails scratched lightly at the skin of his shoulders as she peered up at him, squinting through the mist the hot shower's spray created as it beat against his shoulders. When she felt his cock head press against her core, nudging to slot himself at her entrance, she shivered in anticipation.

James widened his stance, finding his footing against the slippery tiled floor, as he dropped his head to press against her shoulder. Her right hand rose, carding through his hair, nails scratching lightly against his skin in a slow, affectionate touch as she felt him nudge against her, before pushing into her body in a slow, fluid thrust.

His name was whispered against his temple, breathy and light as he filled her completely. Her magic shattered into what felt like thousands of tiny little pieces, and slowly, she felt him weave through the mess he'd made of her until they made a quilt of magic that flowed between both of their souls.

James set a slow, torturous pace, taking his time driving into her, only to pull out and begin the process once more. Each drag of his cock from her body brought forth a temporary sense of emptiness that he quickly vanished the moment he filled her once more.

The hot water washed over both of their bodies, blanketing them in the hot steam as she arched off the wall, pressing her breasts tight against his chest when he tilted his hips and his cock hit a new depth inside of her.

"T-There...Please, right there." Her voice was low, and needy, trembling with untampered desire as he drove her closer towards a release that felt as if it was taking forever to build inside her. "Don't stop."

He lifted his head to nuzzle her throat, pressing soft kisses against her already love bitten skin as he worked his way up to her ear. "So perfect," His praise, coupled with the little primal grunts each time he bottomed out inside her, sent shockwaves of pleasure tingling down her spine. "So beautiful—so good."

His magic reverberated through her with each praise that tickled her skin, a much needed reminder than she was desirable—that she was more to him than just a forced bride. Her stomach coiled, tightening as her need built until she felt her entire body clench.

She was so close, so ready to lose herself to the pleasure he gave, and all that mattered was the feeling of his inside her, completing her.

"Mine...You're so perfect...and you're _mine._"

Her world faded as his shagging induced declaration catapulted her over the edge of oblivion and into the crashing waves of her orgasm. Her cry echoed around the bathroom, filling the tiny space, likely spilling into where Harry still slumbered, but she couldn't find an ounce of space within her to care.

No, not when he made her feel so bloody good. Her magic pulsed, slipping out of her body, and pushing into his with a consuming need. She didn't want to just have his magic share space with her inside her soul—she wanted them to merge and become one.

She clung to James, hips canting against his as he rode out her orgasm, still burying himself in her pulsing cunt until his own need for completion pulled him along with her.

Through the fog of their magic, and the mind-numbing euphoria of coming down from her climax, she could feel his hips grind against hers as he came. The primal need to push his spend deeper within her body took hold, and he thrust shallowly a few more times before he let her hips rest against his, his cock buried to the hilt inside her.

His hands were roaming across her sides, over the markings from war she bore, across the softness of her belly, and supple curves of her breasts. He was a man possessed, stroking, kissing, nuzzling every inch of flesh he could reach until his mouth found hers again in a slow, lingering kiss that ended with a soft nuzzle.

They stay locked together, panting softly against one another for what felt like hours, and it was only when the hot spray of the water began to cool slightly that James finally set her back down.

He helped her wash, paying particularly close attention to the tender skin between her thighs, before he turned off the tap and wrapped her in a thick, fuzzy towel as she dripped puddles across his bathroom floor.

His large hands smoothed her curls back across her head, fingers slipping into the conditioned locks as he smiled down at her, hazel eyes glinting with the hint of mischief she'd long ago associated with an incoming smart quip from the older man.

"What?" Her head tilted to the side and his smile widened in response.

James shrugged, his arm curling around her waist, drawing her closer as his other hand splayed across her upper back, his thumb and pinky resting against her shoulder blades. "Just thinking...I just might become a morning person after that shower."

Hermione snorted, her nose wrinkling as she shook her head. "Oh, is that so?" She slipped her arms from beneath the towel, wrapping them around his bared waist as she leaned in to press her chin against his sternum. "And what if this was a one time event? What if I prefer baths?"

"I'd be fine with baths, too...my Bubble-Head Charm is really something to behold."

Hermione let out a small bark of laughter, teeth sinking into her bottom lip, and when he leaned down to press a kiss against her forehead, the soft vibrations of his own laughter rumbling her chest, she couldn't help but agree.

She could get used to mornings if it meant waking up beside him _and_ Harry.

* * *

Wisps of turquoise magic swirled around the shrunken boxes that lay on the bedroom floor, her wand poised over them, directing the flow of the charm. "_Finite!_" One by one, they returned to their original size with a distinct pop that reverberated off the walls of the sparsely decorated bedroom.

It was nearly two in the afternoon, and the boxes at her feet were the final ones to make the trek from Grimmauld Place to Godric's Hollow. With Harry and James' help, she'd managed to scour the Black family house over the morning to find the last of her belongings. Books from the library, socks from the dryer, and even a knit jumper long forgotten in the bottom of the ground floor closet. They'd manage to find it all.

By the time she'd walked through the Floo, after an emotional goodbye with Sirius, with her pockets full of boxes, and arms clutching Crookshanks' favorite throw pillow, tears glittered in her eyes.

She wasn't saying goodbye forever. No, they'd already made dinner plans for the week's end, but she was saying goodbye to what had been the most painful, heart breaking—yet fulfilling time in her life. She was saying goodbye to the painful memories of mourning the loss of her parents, crying until her lungs nearly burst, and her eyes grew sore. She was saying goodbye to Sirius comforting her through her night terrors. Goodbye to waking up one morning and realizing she'd finally forgiven herself for oblivating them. Goodbye to the feeling of letting go—to acceptance.

She'd grown so much in the five short years following the war, and every single memory involved the safety of Grimmauld Place. And perhaps that was the hardest part. Saying goodbye to what had been her home wasn't just saying goodbye to her surroundings, rather she was closing the door on one season of her life and opening another.

Nudging the boxes against the bedroom wall near the others, Hermione took a small step back, tapping the tip of her wand against her chin as she counted them. Eleven. Twenty five years of her life could be whittled down to eleven boxes, thousands of memories, and one aged feline.

"You doing okay?" Harry sat on the foot of the bed beside Crookshanks, affectionately scratching her irritable cat behind his pointed ears. He knew Hermione was having a hard time—if the weepy goodbye wasn't enough indication, the fact that she refused to even begin unboxing her belongings was a clear sign of her hesitation.

Hermione looked over her shoulder towards him. A stray curl slipping from her bun fell against her temple. "Honestly?" She took in a heavy breath as she turned to face him, bare feet sliding across the polished hardwood. "I'm a tad bit overwhelmed."

"Come here."

Harry held out a hand, watching her move towards him with a sympathetic smile tilting the corner of his lips. This was overwhelming—even for him, and he could only imagine what she was going through. Marrying two wizards, the binding ceremony, and Merlin, last night. As much as he wanted to revisit the feeling of being wrapped between her thighs, he knew she needed time—not just to heal, but to settle into this new lifestyle.

Guiding her into his arms, Harry leaned back on the bed, pulling her with him until their heads sank into the feather pillows, and they lay side by side, facing one another. Shifting on the mattress, Harry propped himself up with one arm, letting his fingers sink into his untidy hair as he laced his other hand with hers, sweeping his thumb across her knuckles affectionately. "I think it's okay to feel overwhelmed right now considering everything," he began, dropping his eyes to study the way her hand fit so perfectly in his. "If you weren't at least slightly frazzled, I'd probably be worried."

"Everything's just happening so fast. I feel like we just opened those letters and now…well, now I'm moving into your guest room and we're all married and—"

"I know. James and I both do—we know this can't be easy, but we don't have to rush anything, you know? We can take our time. James won't mind and I've known I fancied you for..." His voice trailed off as he tried to pinpoint the exact moment he'd realised his affections for her, but it was hard to lock down. It felt like she'd always belonged in his heart—even from his earliest memories of her. "Merlin, 'Mione, I've fancied you for forever. And I know it's new and you might not feel the same, but we don't have to rush. We can figure all of this out together."

Even now, laying beside the man he'd grown into, she could see the boy on the Astronomy tower at the end of their sixth year. The same boy who'd tried to tell her that he'd go on the Horcrux hunt alone—the same one who'd already faced more demons than most wizards faced in their entire lives. It was ironic that he was now using similar words on her.

Because of course they'd figure it out _together._ They'd done everything together since childhood, it only made sense he'd help her navigate this confusing web of emotions inside her.

Sliding her hand from his, Hermione reached up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing across the dark stubble that covered his jaw. "Harry, that isn't the part that's overwhelming." Her voice was barely above a whisper, as if afraid someone else might overhear, even though they'd been alone since James left to pop into the office nearly two hours prior when an emergency owl came through.

"I fancy you, too." She swept her tongue across her lips, watching his eyes sparkle to life, glittering with untampered excitement and she could feel his magic swell against her own. And it was that look—that devotion and hope that shone in his eye—that made the rest of what she was about to say so fucking difficult. "But I fancy James, too…"

She held her breath, waiting for Harry to react, prepared to hear harsh words, or receive a cold shoulder. Prepared to watch disappointment or pain flash behind his eyes. But what she was not prepared for was his actual response.

Harry's smile widened, the hint of silent laughter lifting his cheeks. "Yeah…I know."

"W-what?" Her brow furrowed and she pulled her hand from his cheek. Pushing herself up on the mattress, she looked down at him as Harry rolled onto his back beside her. "What do you mean you know?"

Reaching up, Harry swept his fingers underneath the rim of his glasses to brush across his eyes as a slow trickle of laughter left his throat. "You're not exactly good at masking your feelings when you look at him."

Her jaw dropped, eyes widening as she watched him tuck his hands behind his head in some lazy recline like the news of having feelings for his father wasn't nearly as earth shattering to him as it was to her. She'd only just given a name to the butterflies the older wizard caused—and here Harry was, acting like it had been common fucking knowledge.

"And what the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?"

Harry shrugged, biting his bottom lip to prevent his smile from growing any larger as he looked up at her, resisting the urge to reach up and bury his fingers in her curls—but only because he figured snogging her senseless wasn't an appropriate reaction to her telling him she fancied both him and his dad. Like he wasn't already keenly aware.

He might not have ever verbalized his suspicions, but even fucking Ron—the king of missed signals—had some sort of inkling of her feelings for James. Harry was used to it by now—every bloody parent's weekend at Hogwarts had been damn near torture from third year on, and it was mainly due to the reaction of not only the female faculty, but also the plethora of teenage girls who stared wistfully at his dad in the halls—Hermione included.

He'd noticed it—the way she looked at him, the soft blush on her cheeks when he teased her, and the way she'd lingered close enough to touch him without ever actually doing it. He couldn't lie and say it didn't bother him in the beginning. But now? Well, it was different now, wasn't it?

They were adults, and technically, she was married to his dad just as much as she was to him. And maybe it was the binding magic, or perhaps learned wisdom, but the fact that she liked James didn't bother him as much as it once had. If anything, it made him happier knowing that she returned feelings for not just him, but James as well.

"'Mione, I…I…Well, you know I did watch you shag him last night, right?" Harry lifted a brow.

"Harry!" Her cheeks burnt red as his words sunk in. Of course she fucking knew he _saw,_ but verbalising it wasn't needed, was it?! Another bout of his laughter filled the room as Hermione closed her eyes, her hand lifting from the mattress to smother her flushed face.

"Sorry, I was just making sure you knew."

"Oh gods."

"I wasn't saying it like it was a bad thing—"

"Where's my wand?"

"_What_?" Harry pushed himself up onto his elbows to watch as Hermione craned her head around the room, eyes flickering between the boxes. "What the bloody hell do you need it for?"

"I'm going to hex myself—force this conversation from my mind so I never have to relive this moment ever again," she explained, chewing on her bottom lip. How was she supposed to look at him without melting into a mortified pile of goo? He'd just admitted to knowing she had a crush on his dad, and worse, that he'd watched them shag.

Logically, she knew he'd seen. He was an active participant in what they'd done in the next room over, but hearing him say it—and worse, without malice or embarrassment—was something else entirely. Like this whole situation was perfectly normal and he hadn't just _shared_ her with his father hours ago in the room adjacent to the one they lay in now.

"'Mione...Hermione, look at me."

"I'd rather not."

"Hermione…"

Pressing her lips together, she turned to face him, her cheeks still aflame. His eyes were soft, just the hint of a smile ghosting his lips. He reached for her, his hand curling around hers, tugging her close until her body lay flush against his. She felt the calming effect of his magic flow through her, relaxing her wayward heartbeat.

"It's okay that you fancy him _and_ me. You're married to both of us...so, it makes this whole situation at least a _little _bit easier, right?" His brows lifted, head tilting to the side as he leaned in to drop a kiss on her temple before he drug his lips down her cheek so he could nuzzle his nose against her curls.

His words gave her hope—small flickers of reassurance that he didn't find her feelings for both of them odd, but she struggled with the concept herself. How could she possibly feel that way about them? Was her heart big enough to find space for them both to fit? And what would happen if one grew jealous of the other? She didn't want to be the catalyst for a fallout between father and son.

"But Harry, James is your—he's your dad." She pushed lightly on his chest until Harry was forced on his back beside her so she could look at his face, into his eyes, trying to convey her unspoken concerns to him the best she could with a single look.

"And?"

"And? And, he's literally been a part of my life as long as you have! He's...He's your bloody father." Sighing, she lifted her hand from his chest, fingers brushing the fallen curls back on her head, her lips pursing. "Isn't it odd, sharing your wif—er...sharing me with your dad?"

Harry lay still, her question roving around his mind as he watched her face flicker with guilt and shame, trying to figure out how _she_ felt about the whole situation. Last night, lost in the throes of passion, consumed by lust and need, not an ounce of hesitation shone in her eyes. But the compulsion to bind their union was gone, and in its place, the reality of what they'd done stayed.

He wanted nothing more than to calm her worry, and remind her that he'd stuck by her side through worse situations—like when she'd stupidly invited McLaggen to Slugclub instead of him—but he knew teasing her wouldn't help the situation.

No, she needed reassurance that _this_ was real. That he wasn't sore, or jealous of the feelings she held for his father. That this might actually fucking _work_.

"Is it ideal? Of course not, but...I don't know, 'Mione. James and I have never really had that typical father-son relationship. I mean sure, he's my dad—and yes, I had to listen to him growing up, but—" Harry brought his thumb to his lips, nibbling lightly on the tip as he struggled to find the exact words that might explain the unusual dynamic between him and his father.

He loved his dad, but the truth was James had always been less of a father and more of a friend—especially as Harry grew from gangly teen into a man.

"They had me really young. Mum was barely twenty-one when I was born and Dad wasn't too far ahead of her, and...and although he's never said as much, I'm fairly certain that I wasn't exactly planned, if you know what I mean." A soft laugh slipped up his throat. His parents had been four years younger than he was now when they'd had him—in the midst of a war with uncertainty as to whether they would even see the next dawn, but through it all, they'd made it. They'd found glimmers of hope in chaos and took on the responsibility of not just marrying one another—but committing to having him.

Thinking back to his own time fighting the war, Harry couldn't imagine the amount of stress his sudden appearance would have placed upon the young couple—how scared they must have been.

"And then...Mum died, and everything changed—it had to. I don't ever remember getting in trouble growing up...not like kids are supposed to, ya know? We just kind of palled around and figured stuff out together—or with Uncle Moony and Padfoot. I can't even begin to tell you the amount of times we had to put out fires because we forgot we'd left food in the oven—or how many times we ended up ordering take away because we mucked up dinner so bad...But it was never bad. My dad was my best friend, even when I was little.

"Then I went to Hogwarts...and Voldemort came back—and…and we were just so focused on staying alive that all those teenage problems got pushed off. I never rebelled, or got into daft, meaningless fights with him because we were both so bloody scared that our time together would be the last—like it had been with mum. He just wanted to make the moments we had happy, so we pretended like the world wasn't falling apart on holidays and over summer break. It wasn't until after the Battle of Hogwarts that we could even have a normal relationship—but by then it was too late. I was of age, had a job offer from the Minister himself, and...well, we were all adults—if not just by age, by experience.

"And now? Well, now I'm technically working for him, so I can't very well call him Dad in front of the team. So when I say our relationship is different, I don't mean bad...I just mean _different. _He's more of a friend than my father at this point." Harry eyes flickered away from the blank wall that he'd been staring at while the faded memories of his childhood replayed within his mind, and he looked back up to Hermione, who'd moved to lean against him, her body draped over his middle, amber eyes wide and lips parted as she hung off every word.

Moving his hand from his lips, he let his fingers brush across her jaw before he captured her chin under the crook of his index finger and let his thumb trace her bottom lip. "I would be lying if I said I was keen on a Magical Marriage—but…I guess I don't exactly mind it. I'm not always home, I work odd hours and it's kind of nice knowing you'll be safe—taken care of while I'm gone." He lifted his shoulders in a small shrug before he let his gaze move away from the soft pink of her lips to find her eyes once more. "I mean, at the end of the day you're still mine—even if it means sharing you with him."

Words alluded her. All these little details, the small trivial facts about his childhood were not new information, but woven together in the bittersweet tale he'd just relayed was heartbreaking. She'd met both Harry and James long after Lily was taken from them—pictures of her hadn't adorned the walls, and for the first year of their friendship, Harry never once mentioned his late mother. She'd always assumed it was just too difficult for him to talk about.

But now, she understood.

He loved his mother, death would never be able to separate that bond, but he didn't _know_ her. She'd never gotten the chance to raise him—not like James, Remus, and Sirius had. And even then, their age had factored into the type of parenting he'd received. He grew up in a house of love, laughter, and likely very little rule.

He grew up being showered with the type of love and affection he deserved. Harry's carefree, wild hearted nature was a direct result of how he'd been brought up, and in that moment, as they lay side by side, she wasn't sure if she could ever love him _and_ James more.

He was so open, so willing to make this work because he knew that these inklings of feelings that brewed within her heart hinted at something more—something larger than the three of them could put the words.

And James had helped shape him into this man. This man that loved her endlessly. The 'put his needs second type' of man that was willing to look past the conventional and see the beauty in the unique.

Her tongue moistened her lips before she inhaled and exhaled deeply, letting the slow stretch of her lungs centre her back to the moment. Pushing off the mattress, careful not to dig her elbow into him, Hermione moved to lay down beside Harry. Her arms slid around his middle, curling into the soft cotton of his shirt as she shifted to mould her body against his, letting the weight of his arms settle around her, and the feel of his heartbeat against hers ground her.

"I've always been yours, Harry." She nuzzled against his chest, inhaling the intoxicating scent of his cologne as her eyes drifted shut. "The only difference is that now I'm his as well."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

_Song: We Found Love by Rhianna ft. Calvin Harris_

Heey! I'm back from vacation! Sorry my updates got wonky last week! but we will be back to our regularly schedule program this week. I've seen some comments re: SiriusxGinnyxRemus and while I did mention it in this story (and yes, it will come up again) I just wanted to let ya'll know I will not be exploring that triad-this story is focusing on Her2Potts and that whole dynamic and I fear if I dove into any other pairings (in detail) this fic would scamper away from me with insane word counts! I am so keen on all of your enthusiasm about this fic and can't wait to see what ya'll think of what's to come!

until next time. xx


	12. Chapter 12

_Come out upon my seas  
__Cursed missed opportunities  
__am I a part of the cure  
__Or am I part of the disease_

* * *

Time heals all wounds—or at least that's how the saying goes. Although, Hermione doubted its applicability in this particular situation, especially when it was that _specific _turn of phrase that was used as a placation when people would cause a commotion about their Magical Marriages. As if time were the balm that could ease the discomfort of being forced to marry not one—but two different people.

Three weeks had passed since the matches went out, and it appeared that the citizens of the British Wizarding World were no closer to accepting the Ministry mandated polyamoric unions than they had been the day of the announcement. Despite the Ministry approved articles in _The Daily Prophet_ proclaiming the great success of the Decree, and published photos of the more famous Magical Marriages, her own included, Hermione knew the dark truth the Diviners and the Minister were so desperately trying to hide.

Unrest. Protests. Arrests.

People were furious—refusing to comply with the unorthodox Decree, and moreover, demanding that the Minister resign. The holding cells at the DMLE were overflowing with witches and wizards who'd missed their own deadlines to bind themselves to one another, as well as those who vocally expressed their negative opinion on the Decree and the Minister himself.

The overcrowding only seemed to be growing worse with each passing day—the clerks simply couldn't process transfers to Azkaban fast enough. James had been forced to convert old conference rooms on the second level into temporary holding cells.

Yet, despite the civil unrest, and the Minister's clear abuse of power, her own Magical Marriage was turning into something far better than she'd ever expected.

She was happy—more than happy—_fulfilled._ She found a sense of comfort in both Harry and James she'd never thought possible—and that didn't include _just_ their bedroom activities, though she would be lying if she didn't admit that side of their relationship was equally as fulfilling.

They'd fallen into an easy rhythm. James was always the first to wake, he'd prepare tea and coffee, before rousing Harry and her from their shared bed—having given up the attempts at sleeping in separate bedrooms after their third night under the same roof. The night terrors that would usually claim her sleep were subdued under their touch, and for the first time in years, she wasn't scared of the demons that lingered in the back of her mind.

The bond—the sharing of their magic—wasn't just a means of sealing their marriage. No, it felt as if it had _healed_ parts of her she wasn't even aware were in disrepair.

They'd share a quick meal after showering in their respective bathrooms—Hermione often joining Harry or James, depending on who asked her first. They'd change, and take the Floo to the Ministry, and with quick kisses and promises to stay out of trouble—mostly directed at Harry—they would all part ways until the evening bell rang.

Though, lately, James and Harry's respective returns home had been delayed until much later in the evening due to the heavy workload placed upon the DMLE with the amount of arrest warrants the Magical Marriages Department was issuing.

Which is why, before they separated in the Ministry Atrium that morning, Hermione made them both promise they'd be home no later than six thirty. She knew the promises were lofty, as there were many outside influences that could cause a delay—but both had agreed without hesitation.

She needed an evening with her husbands and a proper dinner. They both needed a good night's rest almost as much as they needed not to think about the workload that awaited them the next morning.

Leaving work earlier than normal, Hermione made a special trip into Muggle London to pick up dinner from a little Thai restaurant she'd introduced Harry to just a few short months ago before Apparating home to wait for the pair.

She was laying out the last of the take away boxes, aligning them until they sat in perfect a row on the coffee table, when the roar of the Floo activating sounded through the room. Lifting her eyes, she watched the vibrant green flames swirl and churn before the image of her older husband stepped through.

James, who she knew had been spending the majority of his time at sentencing trials for those arrested, was already flicking open the line of buttons that held his oxford closed. His hair was wild, standing at odd angles as if he'd done nothing but card through his curls most of the day.

"Hermione?" he called out, blinking through the sudden change of light. His dress robes were hooked off his index finger, draped loosely over his shoulder so the hem hit the backs of his legs.

Rising, her hands brushed across her denim clad thighs. "Right here." She edged around the table, careful not to disturb the carefully laid boxes as she made her way towards him. "You're early—its not even six yet."

A slow smile spread across his lips, hazel eyes twinkling with what she could only describe as bliss as she drew closer. Pulling his robes from his shoulder, he tossed them on the back of the couch before pulling her into his orbit. His hands found her waist, and even through the thick layer of her jumper, she could feel the caress of his magic seep into her skin.

"Snuck away while I still could. Besides, I figured I might earn some extra points if I was more than punctual." Leaning down, he brushed his lips across her cheek, the thick layer of facial hair tickling her skin.

"Points?" Hermione's brows lifted, her voice lilting with curiosity as she leaned into his embrace, her hands sliding across his well-defined chest and over his shoulders to lock at the base of his neck.

"Hmmm." The rumble of James' chest against hers set her ever present ember of desire sparking to life, and she nuzzled against his chest when his arms tightened around her waist in a soft squeeze—his hands fanning wide across her back.

His evening greeting was always the same: a chaste kiss, a gentle squeeze, and for just a tad moment longer than needed, he'd hold her against his chest, their bodies swaying to an inaudible melody that only seemed to play for their ears. Tonight, though, their imaginary tune was punctuated by the dull ring of the muggle clock signaling Harry was officially late.

"Points for what?" Hermione murmured against his chest, her eyes fluttering closed as she took slow drags of the intoxicating aroma of his cologne. He'd always smelled good—the spicy scent of his cologne had tickled her fancy long before she realised how bloody attractive he was, but now that he was _hers,_ it was even better.

She could remember one time in particular, when Harry had invited her over for company while James went to a Ministry Ball. He must have changed dress robes or opted for a nice three piece suit over the standard Magical attire because she'd found a set of robes draped over the back of the loveseat. She would never know the reason he'd left them behind, but all that mattered was that they smelt like the best thing she'd ever had the pleasure of encountering before: bergamont, citrus, and just a hint of spice. She could vividly remember pulling them into her lap as they watched the telly, claiming to have a chill just so she could surround herself with the scent.

James' lips caressed the skin at her temple as they swayed, his fingers tracing the length of her spine. "For best husband of the week."

Best husband of—_what?_

Hermione pushed against his chest, her brows furrowing, causing deep lines to appear across her forehead as she looked up to him. "Best husband?" she repeated, her tongue sweeping across her lips. "Our marriage isn't a competition. You are aware of that, right?"

"Well, _clearly not_ because Harry's really making a mess of his standings this week—he's a full two minutes late." James deadpanned with a less than subtle widening of his eyes. His hands slid over her hips, giving her one last squeeze before he backed away when she swatted at his chest.

"James, seriously! That isn't a—"

The rushing sound of the Floo drowned out her words, and before she could turn to face the hearth, the familiar thump of Harry's footfalls grew louder.

"Bugger! I thought I'd be first." Harry's arms moved around her middle, hands splayed across her abdomen as he pulled Hermione backt until her arse seated firmly against his groin and she could feel his heart beat against her shoulder. "Been here long?"

"Five minute—give or take." James smiled at the pair, leaning back against the couch, his long legs crossed at the ankles and his hands curled around the back lip of the furniture.

A soft blush bloomed to life on her cheeks, working across the skin of her chest when Harry leaned in to press a row of kisses across her cheek and down her neck in his typical show of enthusiastic affection. "Dammit. Does that mean you have more points this week?"

The warmth of his greeting was cut short when Hermione let out a small groan, eyes rolling as she weaseled out of Harry's arms. Turning to face her younger husband, her hands settled on her hips. "You as well? Seriously? How _old_ are you both?"

"Forty-three."

"Twenty-four."

James and Harry said in quick succession, mirror image trademark Potter smiles spreading across their lips as they exchanged a quick look—like conspirators in the plot to drive her absolutely mad.

A laugh born of mirth and incredulity bubbled up her throat unbidden as she watched them share a moment—the unspoken bond between them went further than father and son. How she'd never noticed it before seemed silly, because it was so plain to see that while yes, technically speaking, James was Harry's father, he was so much more.

He was his first friend. His confidant from long before she or Ron had ever bumbled their way into his life. James could never be jealous or hurt by Harry's happiness. He would celebrate with him, shout Harry's victories, and build him up with praise and support—and clearly, based on the sparkle in both of their eyes, the feeling was mutual.

Clicking her tongue, Hermione reached up to pinch the bridge of her nose, taking a slow and steady breath as she tried to stifle another burst of laughter in her throat. "Merlin, you two—you're going to be the death of me."

"I think we'd both prefer if you didn't die—but should it happen, I'll make sure Ron doesn't speak at your funeral." Harry shrugged from his duster, carefully folding it in half before laying it on the back of the couch with a playful smirk.

"Oh, good call. Weasley wouldn't be my first choice to deliver a eulogy either." Beside Harry, James winked at Hermione before she let loose another frustrated groan.

"Alright, if you two don't bloody stop, I'm going to vanish dinner and make you fend for yourselves." Her threat was in vain and they all knew it. For starters, Harry was the cook of their family—his skill far surpassing hers in the realm of the culinary arts. So even if she did make good on the threat, he would simply pop into the kitchen and come out twenty minutes later with some five-star meal that made her take away look like utter trash.

"You cooked?" James lifted his brows in surprise, his arms crossing over his chest, causing the stretchy fabric on his oxford to draw tight, straining the buttons.

"_Ha! _No." Hermione gestured casually behind the pair before edging around the couch they'd leaned against. "I stopped and picked up some Thai food on my way home."

"Is that—" Harry squeaked, his eyes widening as he took in the familiar white boxes

"Lotus Flower? Yes," Hermione confirmed, tapping the lid of one of the three boxes on the table. "Spicy Pad Thai—your favourite."

"I knew I married you for a reason," Harry breathed as he hurried around the furniture, pushing past his father in his mad dash to grab his take away box and claim the far left cushion on the couch.

"Oh yes, because the bloody Ministry had _nothing_ to do with that." Hermione rolled her eyes, picking up one of the three bottles of Butterbeer from the table, and with a wave of her hand over the neck, the cap popped off and fell to the coffee table with a rattle.

James wasn't far behind, opening his own bottle before claiming his seat on the far right, leaving the middle cushion open for her—as usual. He perched on the edge of the cushion, elbows pressed on his thighs as he took a slow pull from his bottle, eyeing the take away boxes with unabashed scrutiny. "Even without their guidance, I'm pretty sure Harry always_ intended_ on marrying you. Which one of these is mine, and what is Thai food exactly?"

Hermione snorted, picking up the middle box and holding it towards James with an incredulous smirk. To say James was a picky eater would have been giving him far too much credit. She'd never registered his very particular eating habits before moving in, but soon realised the reason he ate the same things so bloody often was because James absolutely _hated_ trying new food.

How he'd ever progressed past Jammie Dodgers and crisps was honestly something sort of a minor miracle.

"Basil fried rice–for the toddler of the family."

James took the box from her with a skeptical narrowing of his brows, carefully cracking open the box to peer inside at the contents.

"And before you ask—yes, you do like basil, and no, it does not have _hidden_ vegetables."

"But I see something red."

"Those are chili peppers."

"I'm not sure I—"

"You do," Hermione cut him off, picking up her take away box and settling into the spot next to him, letting the styrofoam container rest on her thighs as she opened her own Butterbeer.

"Are you _sure_?" James lifted his container closer, taking a hesitant sniff of the steaming rice.

"Positive."

"Merlin, just try the bloody dish before you say you don't like it." Harry pointed at his father with his fork, the noodles twisted around the plastic prongs dangled with his movement. "But 'Mione's not wrong. I put chili peppers in that chicken soup you like."

James rolled his eyes, his tongue slipping across the inside of his bottom lip before he took the tiniest bite possible. He stayed silent as he chewed, his brows lifting and falling with unspoken reactions to the new flavours that danced across his tongue.

Hermione held her breath as she watched, silently hoping she'd been able to find _something_ from her and Harry's favorite take out spot that he might enjoy—but just in case, she'd already prepared a turkey sandwich and stored it in the fridge for him. "Well…?"

James glanced over, his fork dangling loosely between his index finger and thumb and he set it on his rice before plucking his bottle of Butterbeer from between his knees to take a quick pull. "It's _actually_ pretty good."

"Ha!" Harry barked through a mouthful of noodles. Quickly swallowing down his food, he dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, wiping off the lingering peanut sauce before leaning over to press a kiss against Hermione's cheek. "Thank you for dinner, 'Mione."

"Yeah, thank you for this—for taking care of us," James added on before taking a larger bite of his fried rice.

"I'm glad you like it—_both_ of you." Hermione lifted the lid on her take away box, and fanned the steam that rose off her dish. "I know work hasn't been easy lately, and I wanted to make sure you both had a good evening. Selfishly, I also wanted to spend time with you and not have to worry about doing the dishes."

"A witch after my own heart," James teased, settling back on the couch, legs spreading until his knee brushed hers.

"I hate to break it to you—" Harry began, setting his fork down in his container, before balancing the box on the arm of the couch and shifting to a more comfortable position, his arm draping behind Hermione. "But, I'm fairly certain she's already got it."

It was James' turn to laugh, bits of rice flying from his lips, landing on the rug and coffee table as he lifted his hand to his mouth. Swallowing down what remained, he shook his head, eyes flickering between Harry and Hermione before he nodded. "Suppose you're right, Harry—she already does."

* * *

For the first time in what felt like ages, Harry was able to relax enough to let his guard down. Hermione's plan to ply them with take away and beer turned out to be precisely what both he and James needed to let go of the tension that had riddled their bodies all week.

Work always had its moments—it wasn't all sunshine and bloody rainbows when the job consisted of chasing down dark wizards and keeping common criminals off the street—but lately it had been _brutal_.

The fine line between criminal and friend was blurred thanks to the Decree. Harry was no longer handcuffing Wizarding Britain's most nefarious and dark. Instead he'd been tasked with detaining people he went to school with—people he knew were good, people who fought beside him, Hermione, and James during the Battle of Hogwarts.

"Cho, Dad—I had to arrest fucking _Cho._" Harry shook his head, swirling the last remaining sip of his ale around the bottom of his bottle as he let out a heavy sigh. "And just before I left, Dennis Creevey's name showed up on my warrant list. How on earth can they expect me to arrest Dennis? He can't go the bloody Azkaban—he wouldn't last a single night there!"

"I know this isn't easy, Harry." James grimaced, hazel eyes downcast to his lap, staring intently at the soggy label on his bottle as he peeled it back. "I'm doing the best I can trying to get convince the Minister to ease off a bit."

"Yeah? And how's that going exactly?" Harry rolled his eyes, glancing up from his bottle to James with a sardonic expression lifting his brows and thinning his lips. "Because last I heard, Thicknesse isn't budging."

Tipping back the last of his ale, James set his bottle on the coffee table before settling back against the couch, his hand cupping his jaw, long fingers settling over his lips. "Harry, this isn't as simple as you think. Pius is… fickle—even on his good days—it doesn't help that his advisors are telling him this is the only option for those not following the Decree. I'm doing the best I can."

"And I'm not saying you aren't, but clearly it's not good enough. Have you seen the report from Angela? Our holding cells are over capacity—Beatrix can't process transfers fast enough to keep up with the amount of new arrests!" Harry's brow furrowed, a slow creep of frustration tainting his tone as he spoke. He knew this wasn't the time—they usually had a 'no business' rule once they set foot in the house, but he wasn't voicing his concern as James' Patrol Wizard—he was voicing them as James' son. As his friend.

This Decree, no matter how great it had turned out for the three of them, was _clearly_ not working for the majority of the people he was sworn to protect. Moreover, he was sick and fucking tired of shackling people who didn't deserve to see the inside of a holding cell just because they refused their Magical Marriage union.

"Harry, I get it—"

"No, I don't think you do," Harry cut him off. With a wave of his hand, he vanished his bottle from where it sat perched on the arm of the couch and turned to face his father, hands rubbing over his denim clad thighs. "I can't do it anymore. I can't keep arresting good people… you're going to have to move me to another department—or put me on leave. I don't bloody well care which. But I _won't_ arrest a single person again for non-compliance with the Decree."

James stayed silent, watching the turmoil and indignation swirl within his son's eyes—he'd seen this look a thousand times before—except this was the first time that fire had been directed at him. He could feel his heart break, knowing that his leadership was causing this type of volatile reaction in someone he loved. But James was up against a wall—so to speak. He was stuck toeing the line of the law while trying to gently encourage those figures of authority to see reason in the madness they'd created.

Worse, James struggled to grasp why these unions were still such a bad thing—how could they be when his own was working out so perfectly?

"Okay… I'll move you to a new unit." He sighed and dragged his thumb across his jawline, scratching through the thick layer of facial hair. "I'll find an opening for you."

"Thank you." Harry tipped his head back on the couch, his eyes drifting shut in an obvious sign of relief.

"I'm warning you now you probably won't like it. I think the only wiggle room I have is in the corrections division, which means you'd be reporting directly to Enochian, and Merlin knows how swimmingly you two get along after he tried to kiss—"

"We agreed to never talk about _that_ ever again." Harry jumped up, eyes snapping open and he turned to his father. "I'll make it work. At least until something better opens up."

A slow slip of laughter rumbled from James' chest, filling the quiet living room and he reached across the couch to lay his hand on Harry's shoulder. "I'm sorry… that you've had to go through that." He squeezed gently, applying just enough pressure to convey the truth in his words.

"It's not your fault—you didn't sign the orders." Harry brushed off the apology with a slow wave of his head. "I mean… _technically _you did, but I'm imagining it was under duress."

"When The Minister of Magic is sitting across from you demanding you authorize something, it _is_ difficult to say no." As comfortable as he was talking candidly with Pius—a wizard he'd grown up with at Hogwarts—the fact of the matter was he was still the Minister, and therefore his boss. James wasn't in a position to be able to tell him no on a regular basis and tended to reserve that card for more serious matters. "I'll figure something out though—make sure your friends are released tomorrow."

Harry nodded, a sad smile barely lifting his lips as he took a deep breath, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. Before he could utter a reply, the sound of Hermione clearing her throat from the top of the stairs called their attention.

She'd left the living room shortly after dinner, saying something about getting ready for bed. James had assumed she meant brushing her teeth and changing into a set of the cozy fuzzy pajama bottoms she'd been favouring since the change of season.

Craning his neck to peer up the staircase to her, he had never been more grateful to be so wrong in his life.

Hermione was leaning against the wall, her hand curled around the edge, a soft smile spreading across her lips as she tilted her head to the side casuing a cascade of honey brown curls to spill over her shoulders. She wore a silken nightgown—burgundy trimmed with black lace. The thin straps draped over her shoulders, loosely holding the slip of fabric over her body. "You two coming or am I supposed to go to bed alone?"

Harry moved first, practically vaulting over the back of the couch in his hurry to rush up the stairs. He took them two at a time, long legs carrying him quickly to the second floor. Landing suddenly, he wrapped his arms around her middle, hoisting her over his shoulder in one fluid motion, and earning a soft squeal of laughter from their witch.

The bottom hem to her nightgown rose up the backs of her thighs, slipping higher and higher until it became clear that there was nothing beneath the thin layer of silk. James' brows lifted in surprise, watching as Harry's hands curled around the milky skin on the back of her legs, holding her securely. Tricky witch—she'd not just planned dinner, but clearly some sort of after performance for the three of them to participate in.

"I'll be right up." James rose from the couch, picking up their collection of wands from the edge of the coffee table and holding them loosely in his palm. "I just need to pick up the mess."

"Vanish it." Harry's hand moved higher, sliding over the long line of her leg and climbing across her thigh until his fingertips disappeared beneath the hem of her nightgown. Hermione gasped his name and swatted at his back. "You know our witch doesn't like waiting."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

_Song: Clocks by Coldplay_

heeey! I'm a day late-Sorry! but here ya go! 3 huge thanks to dreamsofdramione for helping me whip this fic into shape! I am to excited for you all to see what I have in store.

Until next time. xx


	13. Chapter 13

_I'm thinking we should ride,  
__To a place that we don't know,  
__To a place where no one's seen us before.  
__I'm thinking, you and I,  
__Better just go with the flow,  
__Last thing that we should do is go slow._

* * *

Hermione's spine arched, her hands carding through tufts of black hair, holding James' mouth firmly between her thighs as his tongue lapped slowly against the swollen bud of her clit, his torturous pace building the burning need within her until she felt all but consumed by the flames.

She'd been on the brink of orgasm for what felt like hours—both wizards driving her to the edge before backing off just enough to keep her teetering between this plane of existence and the next.

The combined strength of their magic rolled through her, churning and swirling with her own, creating a typhoon of untapped force that threatened to spill from her fingertips the longer they kept her on the precipice.

Harry's hands ran up and down her upper arms, thumbs sweeping across the taut muscles as he laved open mouth kisses along the lean column of her throat and shoulders. "So beautiful," he purred into her skin, gently nipping at her pulse point.

An involuntary shudder coursed through her body, igniting a wave of goosebumps that broke across her skin as she uncurled the arch in her back to press against Harry who held her between his parted thighs.

She could feel his cock at her back, firm and thick against her skin, reminding her of the need they all shared. "P-Please," she finally relented, her mind lost to the lust-fueled haze that seemed to physically fill the room. The air was charged with their magic—thick and heady. It was all she could do to breathe, each inhale filling her lungs with a consuming desire. "_P-please_ James."

James chuckled, the vibration sending her reeling, her thighs quivering on either side of his head, nails scratching at his scalp as she inhaled sharply. His hands slipped down her thighs and he hooked his thumbs under her knees, pushing the appendages up and spreading her wide for his pleasure.

As if they had conspired against her, she felt Harry's hands glide across her skin—down her arms, over the softness of her abdomen, and he took over the hold on her knees until they nearly hit her chest.

James pulled back, his tongue darting across his bottom lip, trying to collect every last drop of her slick that lingered on his skin as he rose up to sit back on his haunches, hazel eyes dark and wild. For as lost as Hermione was in the consuming hunger, it appeared her eldest husband was not immune to its wiles either.

James' hand lifted to his cock, long fingers wrapping around the base as he moved closer towards her. Hermione held her breath, enraptured, watching as he began to tug his length, the glistening head of his cock bobbing with each stroke.

Harry's hand splayed across her thigh, fingers digging small divots into her skin as he eased her knees back farther until it felt as if she was nearly folded in half before James. She could feel his lips against the side of her face, pressing against her temple and peppering her jaw with soft kisses of encouragement as James drew close.

"Say it again." James' voice was thick and syrupy—so clearly lined with a longing that matched her own. She felt his knees brush against her arse and when he let his hand sink down to the base of his cock, angling his length to slot it against her parted cunt to coat his manhood in her slick, she felt a pulse of magic radiate from her in a shockwave.

She could barely fucking breathe, how the hell did he expect her to form coherent words? It felt near impossible, especially when she watched his stomach flex with each gentle rock of his hips as he nudged against her swollen clit with just the head of his cock.

A low whimper slipped from her throat, her eyes fluttering closed, and she let loose the heavy breath she held trapped in her lungs as he coaxed her abandon with each gentle stroke. She needed more—needed him inside of her, stretching her, filling her until there was no room left. She needed the weight of his body against hers, the feel of him beneath her fingertips. She needed James to devour her, and then she needed Harry, too.

She needed _both_ of her wizards more than she needed air to breathe. It wasn't just the magic that bound them together, nor the ache of desire that throbbed between her thighs—no, this spellbinding, soul-crushing need to have them had more to do with the stake they'd claimed in her heart.

She loved them—more than she was aware she could love anyone. Though she was far from ready to verbalise it, she knew without a shred of doubt that what she felt was beyond the Decree.

"Say it for him, 'Mione." Harry nuzzled against her sweat stricken curls as his lips caressed the shell of her ear. "We love to hear you beg."

Her body vibrated, Harry's words adding petrol to the fire that had already engulfed her libido. She let out a shaky moan when she felt the head of James' cock press against her entrance, barely breaching her body—just enough to caress the ache before he rocked back, not giving her exactly what she needed.

"_Please! James, Please!"_

One of his hands moved to press against her abdomen, the firm pressure sinking her farther back into Harry's hold, and in one powerful thrust, his cock filled her completely. He set a brutal pace, snapping his hips against hers, the sharp pain-pleasure of him bottoming out inside of her devastated the last ounce of control she had remaining.

Her pleas turn to moans, which quickly morphed into incoherent shouts as her body trembled, each snap from James' hips driving her closer and closer towards inevitable destruction.

She was going to die—right there, spread open on their marital bed, with James' cock buried between her thighs. She'd welcome death, as long as it meant she could finally find release.

Harry's hands kneaded the supple flesh on her thighs, thumbs stroking over the taut muscles as he whispered words of encouragement in her ear—along with promises of what he was going to do to her once she came. The combination sent her reeling, her body a live wire with need, but it wasn't until James' hand slipped lower, and his thumb pressed against the swollen bud of her clit that she finally snapped.

She threw her head back against Harry's shoulder, her hands scrambling on the comforter, clawing, tearing, shredding the soft bedding as her world came apart. Magic shot from her body, exploding like a rogue firework, sending the shrapnel of corporeal magic around the room. The mirror that hung behind James' dresser shattered into fine grains of sand, raining a sea of silver glitter over his belongings, and the ceiling fan's lightbulb incandescence grew brighter and brighter until it burst with ebullient energy

Her orgasm rippled through her and she fought against Harry's hold as her body begged to break free from the prison of his arms so she could tremble and stretch with the outpouring of magic. A reverent chant of James' name filled the room as she felt herself fall apart around his cock.

Her cunt spasmed around him, pulling him with her in the mind-blinding bliss, and soon, a snarl of completion ripped from James' throat as he ground his hips against hers. She could feel the thick pulse of his cock deep inside her as he coated her with his seed.

Harry loosened his hold, fingers smoothing over the little pink bruises that had already begun to form, and he let her fall limp against him. Her heart beat like a herd of stampeding Thestrals beneath her chest, and despite the adrenaline that coursed through her veins, she felt as if someone had cast _Ossio Dispersimus _on her, rendering her useless.

She felt James slip from her aching cunt, and as she cracked open her eyes, she watched him claim the space on the bed beside her, the mattress dipping under the weight of his fall. His eyes were shut, chest heaving to catch his breath, and cock already softening and weeping against his inner thigh as he lifted his arms to rest above his head on the pillow.

She longed to reach out, touch his cheek, catch a glimpse of those beautiful hazel eyes, but she knew her attention was needed elsewhere. Specifically, to her ever-patient husband who lay behind her.

Harry's hands moved up and down her sides in time with the steady rise and fall of her chest, coaxing her heart to slow from a gallop to a canter. Her hands moved across the mattress, over the mounds of blankets she pulled around them during the throes of her climax to Harry's muscular thighs.

Her thumbs stroked against the firm muscles as she gathered her strength, using the last remnants of her energy to help her push up on her knees and turn around to face Harry. The corners of her half-lidded eyes lifted as a slow, sleepy smile spread across her lips. "Hi…"

Harry was reclined against the headboard, his hair still chaotic from when she'd run her fingers through it while they snogged shortly after making their way to the bed. With his legs bent at the knee, his thighs were spread wide to accommodate the width of her body between them. His cock stood proud against the rippling muscles of his abdomen, the head red with need.

"Hey," he returned in a slow whisper, reaching out to press his fingers against the jut of her hip bone, guiding her closer as she moved to slide her legs over his thighs until she straddled him.

She slid her hands along his broad shoulders, curling over the thick muscle as she pressed her slick quim against his hard, hot length. His hands curved around her sides and a low groan rumbled through his chest, vibrating against her breasts as she shivered.

"Y-you don't—" Harry began, his voice warbled as he fought for control over his own need and lust-driven impulse to lift her up, sink her hot heat over his cock and feel the delicious quiver of her cunt around him as he lost himself to the bliss her body and magic brought him—"have to. We can wait...you're tired."

He wasn't wrong and she knew it—the fatigue from being kept on edge for so long was intense, making her limbs feel laden with lead and the simple act of keeping her body upright was damn near impossible. But the steady thrum compelling her to be with him was intoxicating.

She needed Harry, needed the feel of him between her thighs, the stroke of his magic within her soul. This wasn't about lying with both of her husbands or the act of bonding their marriage per the requirements of the Decree—but rather a burning desire to be as close as physically possible with them. To remind them both how much she cared for them.

Hermione shook her head, fingers teasing the hairs on the bottom of his neck before she wound her fingers into his locks. "Can you be on top?"

"'Mione, we don't—"

"Harry, I want to...I need you—_both_ of you."

His eyes softened, the twinkle of light that spilled into their darkened bedroom from the hallway highlighting his handsome face. She moved to caress his cheek, gliding her thumb over the high of it before she leaned in to press her lips against his, pouring all that she felt for him into that moment.

All her devotion—years of running blindly into the fray alongside him culminated into the simple act of this kiss. She _loved _Harry. Everything about him: his gentle soul, his endless fidelity to helping those in need, his desire to make the world a better place. He was selfless, kind, and often she wondered how the planets aligned just right to let him into her life.

Harry had been her first crush, her first heartbreak, and her first love—all without ever knowing it. In her heart, he'd belonged to her for years—and she'd belonged to him. Now that it was a reality, it was all she could do to not let the three little words slip off her tongue.

But she couldn't say it—not yet. Not when everything was still so new.

His hands crept up her sides to fan across her back as he leaned her back onto the mattress. Her curls splayed around her head in a halo and the springs sunk to accommodate their combined weight as Harry repositioned them until she lay flat on her back, legs bent on either side of his hips.

Sliding a hand between their bodies, she curled her fingers around his length and felt his cock twitch under her touch as she guided him to her core. Her pussy was swollen and tender from her previous coupling, but when she felt him push inside her, his cock entering her at an impossibly slow pace, the twinge of pain flourished into a slow burn of pleasure that radiated down her limbs from where they were joined.

She arched her back, tilting her hips to accept more of him until Harry was buried deep inside of her, his hips slotting perfectly against hers as if they were made for one another.

Thin arms circled around his neck as Harry set a slow pace, gently grinding his hips against hers each time he bottomed out. His right hand mirrored the push and pull of his hips—caressing the lean length of her flank, cataloguing her every dip and curve, worshiping her. Using his left hand to brace himself against the mattress, Harry broke their kiss and pressed his forehead against hers as low primal grunts and groans ripped from his throat.

The feeling of his cock filling her was hypnotic, drawing her deeper into the bliss and swirl of their combined magic. The primal clench of her release coiled low in her belly, seeming to wind tighter and tighter with each languid push of his hips.

The slow crest of her release overtook her like a tidal wave, one moment it felt far away, just on the outer reaches of her mind, and then it pulled her under. Her head tipped back on the bed as she cried out his name, nails digging small crescents into the skin of his back as her body trembled.

Through the slow, drudging waves of euphoria, her body accepted him, absorbing the soft cushion of his hips against hers, relishing in the stretch of her body accommodating his, and soon he followed her into throes of passion. She felt his cock twitch inside her as he came with a whisper of her name—husky and breathless in her ear, spoken as a plea into the universe.

They lay chest to chest, the steady thump of his heart beating in time with her own. The room was silent save for the sound of them gasping for breath as they rode out the high of the climax. Her hands moved across the expanse of his back, sliding across the muscular planes on either side of his spine as her legs slowly lowered from his hips to lay flat against the mattress until her toes touched the headboard.

Harry moved slowly, carefully easing his softening length from her body before he rolled beside her on the mattress, landing on his back with a soft puff of air. His hand sought out hers, stealing it from where it lay on her stomach, slowly lacing their fingers together, before he brought it up to his lips to pepper the soft skin of her knuckles with kisses.

She felt James' hand curl around her ankle, squeezing gently as if to let her know he was still there—still a part of this blissful world they'd created in the safety of their bedroom. Her eyelids felt too heavy, the mattress too soft, and the combined touch of her husbands poured just enough of their magic inside her soul to fill her with an indescribable warmth—a completion that went beyond just the physical aspect of her release.

When Sirius spoke of ancient magic guiding witches and wizards to their partners of long ago, she'd thought it daft—just an old tale used to provide some sort of reason to marriage laws of old. But as she lay in bed, her magic still twisting and turning with both Harry and James' like a kite lost in a gust of wind, she couldn't help but wonder if maybe there was some truth to that old witches tale.

That maybe she _did _belong to them.

That maybe she'd always been fated to be theirs—Decree or not.

* * *

Hermione would not a morning person. From as far back as she could remember, she absolutely detested the thought of trudging out of bed—particularly on crisp mornings. Hogwarts made it easier to rouse from the safety of her sheets, with its charm heated floors and the enticing smells that wafted into the dormitory from the elves in the kitchens below.

Even still, if given the option, she would have preferred to stay under the safety of the covers until the bleary morning light broke into warm rays.

That trait, it appeared, only grew more apparent now that she was sharing a bed with her husbands. Between the weight of Harry's arm around her middle and the feel of James' breath across her skin, she never wanted to leave the comfort of their arms. The world could wait—nothing beyond the four posters of their bed mattered.

It was Saturday, which meant she was allowed to spend as long as she wanted lounging in their bed. With no immediate plans beyond moving some boxes from the first floor to the attic, Hermione was having what James had taken to calling a 'lie in' morning.

Dressed in James' jumper from yesterday and a pair of Harry's shorts, Hermione leaned against the headboard, long legs stretched out in front of her, crossed at the ankle. A book laid open across her thighs, eyes flickering across the typeface on the page with growing interest. She'd found the book while putting away her collection in the bookshelf in the living room earlier this week and simply couldn't get its title out of her mind.

_The Oral History of Magical Unions_. She'd read about wizarding unions before, but this text covered the customs and rituals in far greater detail than she'd ever encountered before. More over, it covered the variations of the binding spells used between countries and how the presentation of Magic depended upon the magical composition of the intended couple—or in some cases, group.

"Fancy a cuppa?" James nudged open the door, a tray floating just behind him as he entered their bedroom. He had snagged a pair of sweats from his drawer before moving to the basement to get their morning fix, and although she knew him walking around the house starkers was not something Harry would be keen on, she couldn't help but wish he'd remained bare.

Harry lifted his head from the pillow, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. "Do Hippogriffs fly?" Tossing the issue of Quidditch Weekly he'd been browsing on the nightstand, Harry pushed himself up and scooted back until he sat against the headboard beside her.

"You know, they are not guaranteed the ability to fly from birth. There is actually a herd in Northern Ireland that—" Hermione lifted her eyes from her book, looking between the two wizards who wore smiles born of mirth. "Let me guess…one of those wizarding phrases?" Hermione picked up the black ribbon she used as a bookmark from her lap and smoothed it across the page before closing the book with a soft thump.

"Uh-huh." James pointed his wand at the foot of the bed and the tray moved in front of him. "But, by all means, continue," he teased as he picked up a mug and held it out for Harry to take before doing the same with the one he'd prepared for her.

"Yeah. It's rather cute when you ramble," Harry agreed, nudging his bare shoulder against hers before he brought the mug to his lips, taking a slow sip as he wagged his brows.

"Oh, shut it." Hermione blushed, curling both hands around the warm mug.

"He's not wrong—it _is _charming. A tad bit on the swotty side, but there is definitely an appeal." James slid onto the bed beside her, leaning down to press a soft kiss on the high of her cheek before leaning back against the headboard. "I brought some of that fruit salad from earlier in the week—and burnt toast, just in case either of you were hungry."

"Oh, yes, actually!" Hermione took a large sip of her tea before she thrust the mug into Harry's open hand—as if he anticipated the hand off. Rising to a tall kneel, she moved down the length of their bed to pick up the glass bowl of fruit from the tray. "Did either of you have plans today? I was thinking we could move those boxes upstairs and maybe pop into The Alley later. I have a bit of shopping I need to do."

_Tap! Tap! Tap!_

The sharp noise startled her, causing her to jump and nearly drop the piece of melon pinched between her fingers. Hermione turned her attention across the room to the large window that sat against the far wall.

Perched outside in the late morning sun sat a grumpy looking barn owl. Its black, beady eyes bore into the room in silent judgement, unblinking, and before any of them could react, it leaned forward to tap its beak against the glass once more.

"Alright, alright, just a moment," James huffed, sliding off the bed. He set her mug on his nightstand before he made the short journey across his room to retrieve the post from the creature.

"Work?" Harry murmured from behind the rim of his mug, his hand snaking across the sheets to rest on Hermione's thigh. Squeezing the supple sink gently, he silently comforted her through the interruption—knowing how important it had been for her to spend the day with them both without the looming shadow of the Decree and its fallout.

"I thought you said Vickerson was on call this weekend." Hermione frowned.

James made quick work of untying the post from the owl's leg and narrowly missed a nip on the back of his hand when he moved to shut the window without providing any treats. "He is. This isn't from work though." James turned around, leaning against the window sill as he inspected the unassuming white envelope.

"Where's it from?" Harry leaned forward, elbows resting on his bended knee as he watched his father open the envelope and withdraw the parchment.

Hermione brow furrowed with growing interest as James scanned the letter, the curious glint in his eye slowly morphing into abject horror, and the colour draining from his face. "James?" she called out to him, setting the bowl of fruit back on the tray, the soft clink of glass against the wood echoing around the eerily silent room. "James—what's it say?"

"Dad, is everything alright?" Harry's had never been good at masking his feelings, often wearing them plainly on his face or in his tone, and now seemed no different. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Harry made sure to keep the blanket in his lap as he reached down for his rumpled shorts, grabbing them from the bedroom floor.

"Fuck!" James pushed off the wall, his hand already pushing through his untidy hair. "I…I have to go." Heavy footsteps carried him across the room towards their laundry hamper and he snatched a pair of denim trousers from the top of the pile, quickly pushing down his sweats and yanking on the dirty denim.

"What?!" Hermione scrambled off the bed, bare feet slapping loudly against hardwood floor as she moved towards her older husband. "James, what is going on? Where are you going?"

"The fucking Minister! He—I need to go talk to him. Figure out what the bloody hell he's doing." James fumbled with the parchment, slamming it on top of the dresser with the slap of his palm, before he began to yank open drawers in search of a suitable shirt.

"The Minister?" Harry stood, his hands flattening the elastic band of his shorts around his hips as he moved across the room. "Can you just calm the fuck down for a section and tell us what the bloody hell is going on?"

"The Minister! He's dissolved the marriages—our fucking marriage!" James swept his tongue over his lips, eyes darting around the room frantically searching for his trainers, or boots—anything he could bloody stuff his feet into so he could leave here and figure out what sort of mess Pius had created without consulting him.

"D-dissolved?" Hermione voice went up an octave, bordering on shrill as she snatched the letter, her heart already pounding a frantic rhythm against her chest.

No, that couldn't be right.

They'd just bound their marriage—took the oath, shared their bloody magic! There was absolutely no possible way they would dissolve the Magical Marriages they'd just spent weeks forcing upon people.

Distantly, she could hear the sound of Harry and James arguing, the booming of their baitones rattling her chest as her eyes swept across the page in front of her. The beautiful golden script that graced the parchment felt like a stark contrast to the painful message it delivered.

_Immediate disillusion...grave error...selection of one Wizard from the union...Plural Marriage no longer legal...Azkaban._

She read the letter twice. Despite the flowery language, the message was crystal clear. Her marriage to both Potters was dissolved effective immediately. Although they couldn't undo the spell that bound her to both wizards without being physically present, on paper, the three of them were no longer married. And worse, the Magical Marriages Division was demanding she make a choice between Harry and James as to which wizard she wished to stay wed.

Hermione struggled to keep up with the rapid swirl of thoughts that twisted through her mind, trying desperately to figure out what this meant for them. From trembling hands, the letter drifted to the floor like a plucked petal from a rose, landing just before her bare feet in time with what felt like a sucker punch to her gut as the blow of reality set in.

They were taking them away from her—the Magical Marriage that the Minister and the Diviners swore by and forced them into. It was all being stripped away, and if that wasn't bad enough, they were making her choose between her two husbands.

Her knees buckled under the weight of the news and Hermione gripped the dresser to prevent herself from falling to the floor. Her hip bit against the metal handle as she leaned into the furniture. The world around her grew foggy as unbidden tears formed in the corners of her eyes. They couldn't take this away from her...could they?

Sure, it was unconventional at best, and truthfully, it didn't make any sort of sense—but this relationship between the three of them _worked._ She was happy, and for the first time in a very long time, she felt whole. The truth was, she loved Harry _and_ James equally—one's space in her heart was no bigger than the other. There was no possible way she'd ever be able to choose between them.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

_Song: Lurk by The Neighborhood_

-record scratch- -evil cackle-

Thank you to dreamsofdramione & Lumoslyra for helping me fix up this chapter. 3 you two are real life witches!

Until next time xx.


	14. Chapter 14

**Warning: Chapter is NSFW**

* * *

_A long night spent with your most obvious weakness  
__You start shaking at the thought you are everything I want  
__'Cause you are everything I'm not_

* * *

"Absolutely not!" Hermione's hand slammed on the writing desk in front of her, the rattle causing the inkpot perched on the corner to slip off the edge and smash to the floor. It's sharp shatter punctuated the indignation that brewed inside of her, mixing with her magic, charging the air in the small study with the hint of brimstone and smoke..

"Hermione, can you just _stop_ for a bloody second and look at this objectively." James' brow was set, his jaw taut with anger as he watched his wife fume behind his writing desk. He had only arrived back home an hour prior, still dressed in the hastily thrown together outfit from earlier. The better part of his afternoon had been spent at the Ministry, arguing with Thicknesse and Finstrom over the latest amendment to the Decree.

"Objectively?" Hermione scoffed, her eyes rolling as she fought back the urge to let loose a sardonic laugh. She knew James was dedicated to his job, and while his fidelity to the Ministry was admirable, it was moments like these that made her want to scream. He'd lived through two wars—fought against not only the Dark Lord but the same Ministry he was now defending. "There is no bloody way to look at what you're asking objectively because quite frankly, the fact you're suggesting it is—"

"Merlin, can we not go down that bloody road again?" James reached up, his index finger and thumb sliding beneath his wire-rimmed glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose as he took in a deep breath. "Me suggesting you choose Harry isn't a fucking insult, Hermione."

"It absolutely is, James!" Pushing back from the desk, Hermione rose from the wooden swivel chair, sending the furniture careening backwards under the force. She moved over to the bookshelf to continue the search she'd begun just moments after he'd left earlier for more texts on Wizarding Law—ancient and current alike.

After the initial shock of disillusion wore off, Hermione quickly fell into the one mindset that had gotten her through the worst of times during the war. Research. Study. She needed to further investigate what she'd already known about the law—but now, instead of trying to find the loopholes that might have made the plural marriage invalid, she sought to find a way to keep _both _of her wizards.

Harry was blessedly familiar with her frantic need to bury herself in tomes during the height of her manic moods, and opted to stay at arm's length. Only popping into the study to drop off some biscuits and a pot of tea around lunch, he made sure she had at least a little bit of food to keep her going.

"I'm not going to _choose_! They've already forced me to marry once—I am not going to sit idly by while they overstep—yet again, and try to take either of you from me. It might not have been my bloody choice in the beginning, but I will be damned if they take that from me now." Her magic snapped at her fingertips and the soft bursts of light flickered in the dim study. Cursing, she pulled her hand back from the bookshelf, fingers flexing as she tried to control her wayward magic. "I can't believe you're just so willing to blindly follow Thicknesse. The man is basically a walking contradiction! Had it not been for the Death Eaters, he wouldn't have even been fucking elected! But worse than that is the fact that you're not willing to fight for me—for _us_. I thought I meant more to you than—"

"Don't you _dare_ finish that sentence!" James' eyes flashed, the deep rumble of his baritone daring her to try and counter his edict. Pushing off the wall, he closed the space between them and spun her around to face him, his jaw working as if he had a mouthful of dung beetles as he stared down into her eyes. "Not _once_ have I hidden my affections for you, Hermione, so don't you dare say _that_. You know precisely how I feel—and that is exactly why I am telling you to choose Harry."

"So, what then? You're claiming that you care for me, that what we share is important to you, but you're so quick to give it up all up—to give _me_ up—because the Minister decided to change his fucking mind! How can you say those things and then treat me like I'm expendable, like some fucking pair of boots you've worn the soles through?" Hermione rolled her shoulders, hands batting against his forearms to free herself from his firm hold.

"Do you honestly believe what you saying? That this decision isn't fucking hard for me?" James growled, the flames of anger rising inside him, licking at his reason and logic and turning them to ash. His hands moved despite her push, fingers curling around the bookshelf behind her head, boxing her in so she couldn't escape. "I just spent the entire fucking day fighting _for you_—for the three of us, for our bloody marriage, but it's not so fucking easy, Hermione."

"Yes, it is! You tell him he's wrong—that he can't make me choose! You tell him you're not agreeing to separate and that he needs to rescind the amendment! You go down to the Ministry and fight! Fucking picket in front of his office if that's what it takes! We cannot be the only ones who've found happiness as a result of the Decree, James! We find people like us, people who want to keep their Magical Marriages, who don't want to choose and who will stand with us against—"

"This isn't fucking Hogwarts, Hermione! You can't just force people to come join your bloody cause! This is bigger than House Elves, it's about people's lives!" He slammed his palm against the bookshelf, causing a few tomes to tumble to the floor around them. "Why can't you just—"

"Because I love you! Can't you fucking see that?" The declaration slipped from her lips unbidden. She had only just given a name to the feelings he stirred within her heart, and truthfully, the word—_love_—scared her more than she cared to admit, but it was the truth. Despite wanting to throttle him for being so fucking dense at the moment, she loved him.

The way he woke her in the morning with a gentle whisper.

The way he'd pop by her office for a mid-day check-in when his owls had returned without a reply.

The way he'd hold her in the evenings, his touch lingering long after his fingertips left her skin.

She loved him more than she could express—as if the emotion was too big for such a smile word.

His eyes widened and she watched the tension slip from his shoulders as her sentiment sank in—and only then, once the fire that'd burned so brightly in his eyes began to subside, that she realized precisely what she'd said.

"Merlin, James. I…I do. I love you so much." Her voice was unsteady, wrought with uncertainty and fear, and for the first time since he'd come home, she allowed the fortress of anger she'd built to break down and expose just how bloody petrified she was. "But I can't choose between you and Harry...I won't choose. I love you _both._"

Her breath caught in her throat, a slow sinking fear stealing her ability to breathe as she watched him process the three little words that meant more than he could possibly realise. Maybe it was too soon. Maybe he didn't feel the same. Maybe he'd suggested she choose Harry as an easy out of their Magical Marriage–his escape from a life he'd never really wanted in the first place.

Just as the self-doubt snuck into her very soul, its dark tendrils curling around her heart, James finally reacted.

His hand moved to her jaw, thumb pressing under her chin, tipping her head back so quickly it bumped against the bookshelf as he pressed his lips to hers. The fire that had consumed him hadn't disappeared, but rather morphed into a blaze. His kiss was demanding, frantic, and when his tongue swept into her mouth, plundering the last ounce of defiance she had, he stole the very breath from her lungs.

His hands moved down her body, curling around her hips, the dig of his fingers against the soft skin grounding her to the moment. Their magic swirled around them, the corporeal iridescent smoke rustling the loose pages of parchment, and flipping through the open tomes that lay on his writing desk. Sliding over the curve of her backside, his palms slipped down to her thighs.

In one fluid motion, he picked her up, wrapping her thighs around his hips as he pressed her against the bookcase, the sharp bite of the wooden shelf causing her to gasp. His lips left hers, the rough scrape of his facial hair sliding down her throat as he moved to the base of her neck. "S-say it again," he growled, teeth nipping roughly at the crook of her shoulder.

"I-I love you."

A low primal groan ripped from the back of his throat, fingertips pressing bruises into the soft skin of her thighs as he hoisted her up higher, adjusting his grip on her petite frame. Pulling her from the bookshelf, he briefly lifted his head, only to ensure he had the right trajectory.

She circled her arms around his neck, fingers sinking into the back of his untidy black hair, carding through the chaos as she clung to him. His trainers squeaked against the hardwood with each purposeful step as he carried her across the room.

He lowered her to the corner of the writing desk, her body perched just on the ledge. His hands left her hips, and with a wave over the desk and a burst of wandless magic, the tomes and files that littered the desk scattered around them—leaving no question regarding his intent.

Hazel eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with unrepentant need. His hands spread wide across her thighs, the soft cotton pooling between his fingers as he ran them up the length of her legs and curved his fingers around the thick elastic band at her waist.

Leaning back on the desk, Hermione braced herself on shaky limbs as she lifted her hips, helping him in his effort to partially disrobe her.

He tossed them to the floor without a care, not even bothering to check where they'd landed. His hands found her skin once more, fingertips acting as divining rods, gracing across the soft skin on the inside of her knee, ghosting their way up the map of her thighs until she could feel the heat of his touch at her sex.

"J-James." His name was a gasp into the charged air that lingered between them, her nails scratching at the soft oak as she tried to arch into his touch—trying to find relief from the ache of desire begging for him to consume her entirely.

His eyes flickered up from her waist, tongue sweeping a slow drag over his lips as he drank in the sight of her splayed out before him—so ready for him to devour.

He'd battled through his own feelings after the night they'd consummated their marriage—torn between giving into the wave of devotion that rippled throughhis soul at the mere thought of her, and playing it cool, letting their relationship develop naturally. It had been so bloody long since he'd been in a relationship—so fucking long since he'd felt this way about _anyone_.

He wasn't that teenager anymore, hopelessly chasing the pretty girl around drafty halls in the highlands in some meaningless attempt to woo her. No, Hermione was already his—and still, he'd kept that final set of walls so firmly erected around his heart. Afraid to let her in to see the vulnerability that still plagued him after all these years. Afraid that _if_ he allowed her in, he'd just lose her—like he'd lost Lily.

It was that same fear that pushed him to encourage her to pick Harry. He was broken, and far too old to be a real option for her future. She was young—so full of life and fire that blazed so brightly within her; he knew that if he held her for too long he might burn. She had a promising future ahead of her—just beginning her career, while he was on his downward slope, still many years away from retirement, but it was certainly on his horizon.

As much as he longed to be with her—to love her, to cherish her the way she deserved, James feared he would never be able to. He was twenty years her senior, once widowed, and father to a now-grown man. He'd been through two wars and bore scars that ran deep beneath the surface from both. Every day he looked in the mirror, he could swear there was more gray in his beard and unruly hair than the time before.

He could never be the man Hermione deserved—not in this lifetime, not in the state he was in.

His heart seized in his chest when her hand caressed his jaw, the tender touch shattering through the cloud of uncertainty that'd fogged his mind. He turned to press a kiss against her palm, nose nuzzling the pulse point at her wrist as his eyes drifted shut.

"I love you, James…have for far longer than I care to admit. I'll _always_ love you—that's why I can't choose." Her voice felt like a caress, soothing his wild thoughts, and helping him through the storm that waged inside his mind.

She loved him.

There was no pretense to her words, no stipulations.

She loved him, and Merlin, he felt the same.

Pressing one final kiss into the center of her palm, James rubbed his cheek across her touch, hazel eyes cracking open to peer down at her—the beautiful curly-haired witch that'd stolen his heart. How did he get so lucky? Some people went a lifetime without ever finding love, and here he was, so hopelessly devoted to a witch again. His second chance—a do-over for a life he hadn't gotten to truly live.

"I love you too, Hermione."

He didn't know if he'd regret returning the words, no matter how true they might be, because verbalizing them meant he could never take them back, nor could he give her up. Verbalizing them was the final nail in his coffin. He was hers—and she is. No bloody law or Ministry was going to break that up.

Tears glistened in her eyes, making her beautiful whisky coloured eyes shimmer like diamonds in the soft light, and her bottom lip quivered as she fought to contain the overwhelming emotions that coursed through her veins. With a hand on his jaw, she guided him back to her until their lips met and she felt the press of his hips against her thighs.

As her tongue swept into his mouth, taking control of their kiss, Hermione's hands moved down the expanse of his chest, sliding over the thick muscles that made up the map of his body until she reached his waist. She flicked open his trousers with a practiced ease and pushed the jeans and shorts down his muscular thighs until she felt the heavy weight of his cock rest intimately against her.

Wrapping her fingers around his length, she pumped her fist in a languid pace that matched the slow burn of their kiss, gradually bringing him pleasure until his cock stood—the velvet skin taut. Hooking her legs around his waist, she scooted closer, perching on the very edge of the desk.

Guiding him to her core, Hermione arched her hips until she felt the head of his cock press against her opening. A soft sigh slipped from her lips as James took the lead and pushed inside her at an unhurried pace—as if taking his time to make sure he would remember every single fraction of this moment.

James swallowed up the little noise greedily, his nose lightly nudging hers as he pulled back until just his tip remained buried inside her heat only to fill her once more, setting an almost excruciatingly slow rhythm. He waged war with the primal instinct that told him to claim her as his—to bring them to completion as fast as possible, to fill her with his seed and make sure she bore their children.

But this wasn't about that—not some frantic need to find climax as their very first time together had been. This wasn't about binding their union, or her bringing both of her husbands back down to reality after a shite week at work.

No, this was about the two of them.

This was about loving her so intensely it scared him to even think of pushing her away. It was about the sea of love that churned within him every time she so much as looked at him—let alone the little way she breathed his name when they shagged. It was about how James had just lost his battle to keep this a secret. How Hermione had stolen his heart, bewitched his mind and ensnared his soul.

He wanted to remember this moment so on his deathbed, he could recall what it felt like to realize the woman of his dreams returned his affections before he welcomed death's embrace with a smile on his lips.

He wanted it to never end.

Breaking their kiss, Hermione pressed her forehead to his shoulder, slow, drawn-out moans slipping from her lips as she clung to his shoulders. Nails curled into the soft cotton of his shirt, likely carving marks into his skin.

Their magic wove together, swirling and winding until the threads that made up the very fibre of their being merged as one. James could feel her heartbeat within his, the radiating thrum of their combined magic drawing their souls closer until they were one person—living, and breathing together.

"J-James." Hermione's eyes closed tight as she teetered on the edge of oblivion, poised on the precipice, as if just standing on the tips of her toes, waiting for that final push that would throw her over and into the tide below.

Whether it be instinct or the merging of their magic, James seemed to be able to sense precisely what Hermione needed. With one final push into her quivering core, he ground his hips against hers, his hands on her back holding her as close as physically possible as his mouth found the shell of her ear. "I love you—I love you so much."

It wasn't a white-hot heat—or an explosion. It wasn't that fast-burning, mind-numbing bliss. No, it was a slow burning feeling that began at the tips of her toes and crept up her body until it was all she could do to hang on to the moment. Her breath caught in her throat, lungs expanding with an unspoken plea of devotion as she came apart in his arms.

Her body vibrated as magic poured from the centre of her chest, as if there was a direct link between their hearts, and she cried out when she felt him follow, his cock pulsing deep within body shuddering in her grasp.

Legs tightening around his waist, her heels dug into his lower back as she held him tight, afraid to let go—afraid for this moment to end and the next to begin, drawing them back to the reality of their situation once again.

The second hand tick from the analog clock was a metronome for her breath to follow as she leaned against his chest, her cheek pressing into the broad expanse of his shoulder. When he began to guide his hands across her back in slow, soothing strokes, she let her eyes drift closed.

"Please… _please_ don't make me choose." Her voice was tiny and wavered with fear. "I _can't_ James… I can't choose."

His hand moved into her curls, tunneling through the thick mass until it found an anchor point. Tipping her head back, her gaze found his. In his eyes she saw a magnetic energy that conveyed everything he never could—it described his feelings for her better than any word in the English language.

More than love.

More than devotion.

More than bliss.

"I won't—I _can't._" His other hand dropped to her bare hip, fingers flexing against the soft skin. "You've ruined me for anyone else, Hermione. Stolen my heart—clouded my mind and invaded my soul...how on earth could I possibly give you up now?"

* * *

**Author's Note:  
**

_Song: Makedamnsure by Taking Back Sunday_

You get this a day (or hours) early because tomorrow is my company's holiday party and I don't reasonably think I will be able to post. That being said. enjoy!

Until next time. xx


	15. Chapter 15

_to make them drink, tell them that it's only water_  
_no one leaves 'till we figure this out_  
_what made you so scared?  
maybe your mistaken for someone who cares_

* * *

Two days.

He only had _two_ bloody days until his transfer to the corrections unit was complete. Technically, less than forty-eight hours remained when the request came through.

_Auror Potter, _

_Your assistance is needed at the Magical Marriage Registry Desk immediately._

_Signed,_

_Chief Diviner Finstrom_

He was halfway through a turkey sandwich when the owl arrived and Harry damn near threw it at the bird in a fit of rage. _Why him_? Was it a war hero thing? Maybe they liked making his life a living hell—ordering him about like some sideshow carnival act. Or maybe they just wanted to see how much running about he would endure before he finally snapped.

Regardless of Harry's suspicions about their nefarious intentions, he took three large bites of his sandwich before getting up from the canteen table, hoping the little bit of food in his stomach would be enough to get him through until he could have dinner at home.

He expected to find some disgruntled Diviner, ranting about how the magic used to decide the union of three was vastly different from two. They tended to be the more dramatic bunch of the Ministry rank and file employees—it wouldn't have been the first time he'd had to intervene in one of their more fanciful tirades. To be precise, it wouldn't have even been the second or third time either.

But what Harry did not expect to find as he pushed through the set of heavy wooden doors into the polished lobby was his wife.

"Cannot accept it? _Cannot_ or _will _not because I am pretty bloody sure you are completely capable of setting my form in the box to your fucking left, Susan!" Hermione's voice was penetrating, the shrill tone shredding any doubts one might have about her being at least semi-rational at that very moment. Reaching across the desk, Hermione slapped the form down in front of the purple-haired receptionist.

"Whether I'm capable or not isn't the question Ms. Granger—"

"Potter," Hermione corrected, her nostrils flaring as she fell back on her heels. "My last name is fucking Potter. If you took my form, then you'd clearly see that."

"Actually, until you've turned in a form that is properly completed, you are technically unwed." Picking up the crumpled parchment by its corner between two painted fingernails, Susan slid it back on the counter with a small grimace. "So if you could just do it the right way—"

"_The right way?!_" Hermione shrieked, her voice hitting an octave Harry wasn't even aware existed. "I've done precisely what Finstrom asked! It's filled out. You have my bloody name, my wand type, my birthday, and the same information for both of my husbands. There is literally _nothing_ incomplete."

"Yeah…The boxes are all filled but you've… um—you've altered the form to accommodate two spousal boxes and we are no longer accepting polyamorous marriages in the wake of the amendment. So, if you just want to use the proper form and select _one_ husband, that'd be great." Susan gave Hermione a tight smile, slowly folding her hands over one another.

He should move.

He really ought to do something—_anything_ instead of watch as Hermione absolutely lost her marbles on the receptionist, but Harry couldn't pull himself away. The sizzle of magic sliced through the air; like the smell of incoming lightning, Harry felt its presence before the first snap of magic sparked in the room.

To his left, a stack of Magical Marriage manifestos scattered in a whirlwind—littering the black marble floor. To his right, the lightbulbs that hung over the Ministry's propaganda posters burst, raining sparks and shards of glass over the altered images.

"Fuck off! I am not—I will _not _pick between my husbands. Your fucking department made me marry them both and you cannot just take them from me because of some stupid amendment," Hermione growled, her fingers flexing at her sides. Although Harry couldn't see her face, he could hear the distinct lining of tears in her voice.

She was upset—beyond upset, Hermione was furious—well past the threshold of rational. She had dived headfirst into the waters of unreasonable the moment they'd received that letter demanding she choose one of her husbands just two days ago. In those same forty-eight hours, she'd only managed to sink deeper into the consuming hold of madness.

They couldn't make her choose.

She _refused_—if only on principle alone at this point. She loved Harry and James, and although they'd been married for just a few short weeks, she'd already begun to dream of a lifetime married to them. They'd found happiness—and now the Ministry wanted to rip that away? Over her dead body.

Unbidden tears collected in the corner of her eyes, her bottom lip quivering as she took in a slow breath, trying to prevent the tears from slipping down her cheeks. She didn't want to cry! She didn't fucking understand why her body was betraying her, forcing weakness to the surface, but she wasn't going to give into it. She couldn't. She needed to fight for Harry and James. She needed the Ministry to know that what they were doing was unacceptable and she wasn't going to sit idly by and allow it to happen.

"Legally speaking, we _can_. And we _are_," Susan replied crisply, her tone eerily reminiscent of a pug-faced High Inquisitor Hermione might actually loathe more than the Dark Lord—especially considering she was still very much alive and breathing. "So, if you could just close your legs and fill out the form—then I will happily submit it for you."

Magic snapped from her fingertips, cracking the receiving desk in two as a tidal wave of wrath swelled up inside her and overtook her sense. Anger overflowed, spilling out of every pore, filling the air with an electrical charge that made the hairs on her arms stand on end.

How _dare_ she!

Just who the fuck did this smart mouth witch think she was talking to?

She was Hermione Jean Granger—brightest witch of her age and a bloody war hero!

She would be damned if this receptionist got to sit there and imply she was some Knockturn Alley slag without repercussion.

Hermione was helpless to the burst of magic that bloomed around her, lost in the consuming sea of her righteous fury as the room swirled with unbound magic, emanating from where she stood poised in front of the broken receiving desk.

Her hand curled around the form, the parchment crinkling and tearing under the force as she leaned across the desk. Her body slipped through the crack that had appeared as she roughly shoved it against the stunned witch's chest.

"Take it!" Hermione hissed through gritted teeth, her body trembling as primitive magical energy spilled from her, snapping the air in the room like little fireworks. "Take the bloody form."

"Hermione!"

Finally pulled from his stupor, Harry was already halfway across the room by the time Hermione turned to face him. "What the bloody hell are you doing?"

Just as quickly as the wave of anger had taken over her, the sight of her husband—her best friend, the only person in this entire world who knew Hermione better than she knew herself—immediately grounded her. A confusing hopelessness took hold and the tears she'd fought to hold back fell.

"H-Harry...I-I…they—"

He was pissed. She could see it in his stare, the distinct tension in his jaw and his wide-legged gait. She had never been on the receiving end of that look before, but it was one she'd witnessed countless times over their years of friendship. Her heart trembled as a bloom of fear ebbed its way into her heart. She wasn't scared _of_ him, but rather scared of _disappointing _him, scared that in her rage she'd done something that would make him think poorly of her or doubt the validity of their feelings for one another.

She waited, her bottom lip quivering with each of his hurried steps towards her. Bracing herself, she prepared for him to drag her from the room and reprimand her like his job required—like she was some common criminal. She expected to be slapped with a fine and perhaps receive a note in her Ministry file.

"Are you okay?" His hands moved to her shoulders, squeezing lightly as he guided her away from the ruined desk and directly into his embrace.

A hand sunk into the back of her curls, cradling her against his chest, she could feel his wild heartbeat tattoo against her skin. When his other arm moved around her shoulders, and his hand fanned wide across her back, she lost all sense of composure. Thin arms moved around his middle as she buried her face in the rough fabric of his Auror duster and her hands twisted in the unforgiving cloth.

No, she wasn't okay! How could she be?! They were trying to take him away from her—trying to separate her from _both_ of the men she loved.

She shook her head as she leaned into him, letting him carry the burden of her weight just for a moment so she could succumb to the overpowering rollercoaster ride of her emotions.

"Shhh… I'm here now. I've got you." He pressed soft kisses across the crown of her head, his hand on her back moved to stroke her spine, and she tried to match her breathing with the rise and fall of his as she gave into the tears.

Harry moved them from the lobby, not even bothering to give the receptionist a second glance as he swept her from the destruction left in the wake of her magical outburst and into the hallway. He curled her into his chest, shielding her from the prying eyes of other Ministry employees that had filtered into the hallway.

Dragonhide boots snapped loudly against the marble floor, and Harry held his head high, trying to maintain his appearance as a pillar of strength instead of the mess he felt inside. His wife, if that's what she still was, was hurting. She needed him to be strong now more than ever, but all he wanted to do was rush them home and kiss her tears away, giving in to his own wayward anxiety over the position the Ministry had put them in.

He couldn't help but feel that James might have been more equipped to deal with this—he'd always been good in the face of adversity. Growing up, he'd often used his father as a sounding board for irrational ideas. The long talks with James didn't necessarily prevent him from doing something daft or reckless, but they did prevent a good number of bad decisions. He hadn't punched Cormac in the bloody nose for his less than subtle comments about Hermione's appearance during sixth year nor hexed Umbridge to Ireland and back after his first detention fifth year. His father was wholly responsible for making Harry see reason in each instance.

James had always been the voice of reason. James would have been able to calm Hermione better than Harry ever could, and yet, it was Harry guiding her down the busy corridor towards the first open room he could find so he could try and stop her tears before his own followed suit.

With a quick flex of his wrist, his wand snapped from the wrist-guard into his hand and he spun the wooden handle until he felt the familiar knobs slide into place. "_Alohamora!"_ The tip of his wand illuminated blue, and soon he heard the slide of the latch release. With a firm push, Harry opened the wooden door and pulled Hermione inside with him.

It wasn't a conference room—hell, it wasn't even a meeting room—but the dingy little broom closet would work for what he needed. Leaning back against the door, Harry used his weight to shut it as his arms wound around Hermione, locking at her waist, before he hoisted her off the floor.

Her legs spread around his waist as her arms wrapped around his neck. Her face pressed into the crook of his neck. Harry could feel the hot splash of tears against his skin, and as he held her—like he would hold Teddy when the tot was overcome with emotion after a tumble—Harry hummed softly, dotting soft kisses against her temple and brow.

It must have been nearly fifteen minutes later by the time the steady flow of tears stemmed, but when they finally did dry, Hermione felt boneless in Harry's arms. Tired. Weak. Bloody exhausted. She hadn't cried like that in ages—not since the day she'd received the news that her parents would never recover their memories.

Lifting her head, she dragged the back of her hand across her cheek and under her nose as she sniffled back the last few tears that lingered in her eyes. "S-sorry." Her throat felt raw—throbbing and painful, like a skinned knee. "I didn't—"

"It's okay. You don't have to explain." Harry let his head fall back against the wood, the motion pushing his hair up at odd angles as he looked down at her with small shimmers of sympathy and fondness in his expression.

"You can… You can fine me—if you need to." Her tongue swept across her dry lips and she let her eyes fall to his shirt as her hand moved to smooth across his collar, unable to hold his gaze as she spoke. She wasn't necessarily embarrassed by Harry witnessing her outburst—it hadn't been the first time she'd used accidental magic in front of him—but she _was _embarrassed that she'd allowed it to get so out of control.

"I'd understand. I wouldn't be upset."

"You think I'm going to fine my wife?" Harry shifted her weight in his arms, slowly lowering her down until her feet touched the floor, and once he made sure she was able to stand on her own, he lifted a hand to her jaw, gently tipping her chin back until their eyes met. "No—I'm not going to fine you. I'd have to do_ a lot_ more than that if I reported what happened. If I'm being honest, I don't much feel like filling out paperwork this evening… that and Susan can be a bit of a cunt most days, so…"

A sharp laugh slipped from her throat as Harry lifted his shoulders in a less than innocent shrug, his smile widening.

"Harry, I don't want you to get in trouble."

His fingers slipped across her jaw, slowly traversing her skin until he cupped her face. His thumbs moved over her cheeks, wicking the residual moisture away as he smiled fondly down at her. "'Mione, you're married to the Head of Magical Law Enforcement and the man who saved the Wizarding world. I'm fairly certain neither of us could get in actual trouble even if we _wanted to_."

Leaning in, Harry guided her lips to his in a gentle kiss, just the ghost of pressure from his lips ushering her eyes closed. His magic brushed against hers in time with his caress, speaking louder than his words ever would. The feel of his magic—the tantalizing tingle penetrating her blood and fogging her consciousness—slowed her runway heart better than any calming draught she'd ever taken. Harry's kiss grounded her from the mania that had plagued her mind all morning.

Her hands, which had moved to rest against his chest, hovering just over the steady thump of his heart, curled into his shirt, holding him close as she melted into his touch.

_This_.

This is what she was prepared to fight for—what she was so unwilling to give up—the love, the comfort, the complete and utter perfection of being in Harry's arms. The love she had for each man was so different—each filling a space in her heart like they had been perfectly designed to fit inside of it.

A swell of magic grew and grew until the warm tingle enveloped her whole body, cresting over her senses, and ushering in a calm that she readily welcomed. It frightened her though, because as much as she wanted to give in and allow his touch, _his magic_ to soothe the wild energy within her soul, she knew she was on the verge of losing it all.

Breaking the gentle kiss, Hermione's bottom lip began to quiver once more as she looked up at Harry, watching the worry swirl deep within his beautiful emerald eyes. She cupped the side of his face, thumb stroking over his stubbly cheek as if trying to memorize the way his jaw fit perfectly her palm. "Harry… I can't choose. I can't comply with what they're asking."

Harry's hands tightened around her waist, his brow setting as her words sank in. She knew what this meant to not only him, but to James as well. She knew what she was risking: her marriage, her men, her freedom. The Ministry had been all too keen to arrest those for non-compliance just days ago; it wasn't a stretch to assume they would do the same for those unwilling to follow orders now.

It was as if she could see the thoughts flow through his mind, as if she could sense them through whatever connection they shared as a result of their bonding ceremony. Just as he opened his mouth, taking a deep breath in preparation for what she was certain would be a speech lined with concern about what her choice meant, Hermione shifted her hand from his jaw and pressed two fingers against his lips to silence him.

"Harry, I know." She held his gaze, giving him no room to question the meaning behind her words. "_I know_ what this means… what I'm doing, and I'm prepared to deal with the consequences— whatever Thicknesse deems them to be, but I… I cannot sit by and let him do this. I can't choose between you two. I love you both. They think they can just—just bring you into my life like this, open my eyes to what my heart wants then take it from me? It isn't right! They made my choice for me once already, and I will be damned if I sit by and let them do it again."

Harry stood frozen, his eyes wide, a slow bloom of colour creeping from the high of his cheeks and moving down his neck as he looked down at her. Fear—no, _shock—_masked the affection in his eyes as he reached up, thick fingers wrapping around her wrist and slowly dragging her fingers off his lips.

"You… love me?" Harry's voice cracked, reminiscent of that gangly teenager she'd known so long ago.

"What?" Hermione lifted her brows, and the tinny laugh that followed should have told him how utterly foolish his question was. "Of course I love you! You're my best friend and my bloody husband. How on earth could you—"

His hands at her waist had somehow moved at lightning speed and Harry cupped her jaw, pulling her into a fierce kiss that silenced her words and made her knees buckle. He swallowed up her small noise of surprise, and Hermione's hands gripped his shoulders for support as her eyes drifted closed.

Just as it had on that fateful evening that brought them together, the planets seemed to align. Every molecule in her body felt aflame, burning beneath the surface of her skin, begging for relief as his magic sizzled inside her, pouring into her from his lips. His fingers gripped her curls, angling her head back just so as he guided her lips open and his tongue swept into her mouth.

Drunk.

She felt as if she'd drank an entire bottle.

The foggy, dizzy, warm sensation overwhelmed her, stealing the breath from her lungs, and making the fierce emotions that caused her magic to snap earlier quiver like a harpist's strings under pressure.

Gone were the thoughts of how she was going to dismantle the amendment. Gone were the thoughts of how bloody daft the Minister was. Gone were the feelings of contempt for Susan.

Instead, it was all she could do to stay afloat in the swell of Harry's magic as it forced its way into her body, overtaking every ounce of space she had within her until she was certain none of her own remained.

She melted under his touch, letting him guide their kiss—letting him lead her in the passionate, slow, magnetic pull of his love.

Withdrawing his tongue from her mouth, Hermione let out a small whimper at the loss of the intoxicating taste of his kiss. But her need was quelled as he began to pepper soft, feather-light kisses across her cheekbones, over her brow, even on her eyelids. Each kiss was an unspoken declaration of not only his love for her, but his support for the journey on which she was about to embark.

He didn't need to utter a single word for Hermione to know exactly how Harry felt—not just about her, but the marriage she shared with him and James. He would stand with her and fight for what she believed to be right just as she had stood beside him all those years at Hogwarts. Except this time, it wasn't just them against a dark force— but her, Harry, _and_ James against the power they'd helped put into place.

The Potters against the Ministry.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Song: Act Appalled by Circa Survive.

Happy Christmas, Third Night of Hanukkah, or whatever winter holiday you might be celebrating. 3

Until next time. xx


	16. Chapter 16

_My life  
You electrify my life  
Let's conspire to ignite  
All the souls that would die just to feel alive_

* * *

"What?!"

"Shh!" James looked over his shoulder to the stairs, hazel eyes brimming with worry that Harry's outburst might rouse Hermione's curiosity and draw her downstairs. "Merlin, Harry, keep it down."

"Sorry—but you cannot be serious." Harry set his bottle of water on the kitchen counter with a small thud, his head already mid-shake when he raked his fingers through his untidy hair. "James—Dad, you…you're absolutely mad"

"If wanting you both to be happy makes me crazy, well then so be it." James turned his attention back to his son, his lips thinning just slightly. "I just think it makes sense for you two to remain together. I see the way you look at each other."

"And if you think she doesn't look at you the same way, you're bloody daft," Harry quipped with a well-timed wave of his hand. "You know you don't want that either. I can practically _feel_ the way you feel about her."

"Of course I don't want that, but—"

"But _nothing_." Harry slapped his palm on the counter, the sharp strike punctuating his edict as he set his jaw, the thick muscles running up his neck bulging under the tension. "This…this marriage works! Hermione knows it, I know it, and you bloody well know it, too! I'm with Hermione on this one. Fuck them. They can't force us to marry her and then demand she pick only one of us when they change their mind. Regardless of the whiplash they're giving us with this damn amendment, what they're doing should be bloody illegal!"

"They're the law, Harry. I'd also like to remind you that as an Auror, you're obligated to follow the laws that the Minister and Wizengamot set." James tapped his fingers against the kitchen island, hazel eyes peering over the rim of his wire frame glasses to hold Harry's gaze. "_Regardless_ of our personal feelings, we swore an oath to uphold the law."

"I swore that oath under the pretense that our Minister was not a fucking troll." Harry crossed his arms as he held his father's gaze, unblinking. He was right, they both knew it, but Harry also knew James' dedication had less to do with the validity of what the Ministry was trying to pull, and more to do with his perceived inability to reason with Thicknesse and the powers that be if James came out as against the amendment.

Silence settled between them, neither willing to back down. This was far from the first time the pair had argued over the years, but it was the first time James could ever remember Harry being so adamant. Breaking eye contact first, James reached up under his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose as he took in a large gulp of air, letting it fester and burn in his lungs before he released it into the tense kitchen.

"What would you have me do, Harry?" James' hand fell limply onto the cold surface of the kitchen island. "Go tell Pius that I disagree and want to remain married to Hermione—who in turn is also married to you?"

"Uh…yeah, actually that sounds pretty spot on."

"_Harry_…"

Harry shook his head, tongue sliding across his teeth as he pursed his lips. "_Don't_. Don't do _that_—use that disapproving dad voice." Taking two decisive steps back from the island, Harry put some more distance between them. He began to pace the length of the room, keeping his eyes downcast so he didn't have to deal with the visual of his father frowning at him in a bid to guilt him further. "I get it, okay? I do, but this isn't…this isn't some stupid bloody law, alright? This isn't a noise ordinance, or like—like some regulation on Kneazles—this is our bloody lives! This is so much bigger than what it started out as."

Twisting and tugging the tips of his hair into soft peaks as he spoke, Harry kept his gaze averted to give himself the courage needed to finish. "I don't think any of us planned for this to work—but it _does_. I know you feel it, too. 'Mione is right, we can't stand by and let them make our choice for us again. So, fire me, or put me on leave, or do whatever you need to do—Merlin knows I don't need the bloody paycheque—but _I_ won't sign and neither will Hermione. I'm going to stand by her choice. If she doesn't want to choose, I'm not going to force her. If you return even an ounce of the feelings she has for you…then you shouldn't either."

James remained silent as Harry's words washed over him, the impact of their truth puncturing past the walls of logic he'd tried to build since waking up and finding that damn letter. Not so long ago, James would not have hesitated in joining Harry and Hermione's fight. He would have gone down to the Minister's office and refused to leave until he'd been granted an audience. He would have demanded change—fought for it himself.

But _that_ James was years—if not decades—gone, hidden under years of parenthood and countless nights fighting with his own morals just so he could keep a steady income for his son. _That_ James didn't see how change from the inside was possible. _That_ James was more like his son turned man who stood before him now, pleading his heart—his cause—and begging for James to join them. Begging him to stand not only for himself, but for the woman they both loved.

"Do not misinterpret my hesitation for lack of affection, Harry." James leaned over, his elbows pressing against the cold granite countertop as he moved to cover his face with his hands, his fingers slipping beneath his glasses and pushing them up his forehead. "I just want what's best—for_ both_ of you."

"It's not your position to parent us anymore—it hasn't been for years...and based on what I've seen—well, you certainly don't have that type of relationship with Hermione or myself any longer…"

A sharp, tinny laugh slipped from his throat as James tried to determine at what age Harry finally grew from boy into man—because in this moment, it was more apparent than ever before. "I won't ask her, or _you_ to make the choice. But know that I cannot join your fight—at least not publically. If there is _any_ chance of getting Pius to change his mind, I need to remain in charge of the DMLE."

A jolt of hope fizzled through Harry's veins, his heart skipping a beat. He took a deep breath, willing his pulse to slow to a steady cadence as he focused on the granite countertop. Lifting his eyes to find his father once more, he allowed just the corners of his mouth to tug upwards in a hopeful smile. "So you'll help then?"

"I'll do what I can…_legally_."

A slow smile spread across Harry's lips, his cheeks lifting the corner of his glasses and he would have let out a small whoop had it not been for the look of dread still lingering in his father's eyes. "Thank you."

James' eyes rolled in time with a wave of his hand. "I haven't done anything yet, and Godric knows that it might all be for nothing, so don't start. Just…give me some time to figure out what we _can_ do. Go take care of her, keep her mind from scheming up new ways to raise hell for a while, yeah?"

The slow trickle of Harry's laughter filled the kitchen. While James' request wasn't unfounded, they both knew Hermione well enough by now to know that Harry would have a better chance at getting kneazles to stop chasing gnomes. Once Hermione had her mind set on something, it was nearly impossible to deter her.

Especially if Harry was backing her.

"I'll do my best." While not a promise, it seemed to do the trick because James tugged his glasses back down his face, setting them high on his nose as he returned a soft smile.

James spoke up after several beats of silence, tossing his hand towards the far side of the room to gesture towards the kitchen's exit. "Well, go on then—I've got some work to do."

Harry nodded, his hand moving to rub the back of his neck as he began to back out of the room—torn between listening to his father or running around the island to hug him. He knew James needed time to gather his thoughts about how the three of them would navigate fighting the law while still appearing in compliance with the Ministry. Likely, he'd need some time to sort out his own feelings about the situation as well.

But more importantly, James needed space—which was the exact opposite of what they both knew Hermione required.

"Uh…what about dinner?" Harry paused at the threshold, lingering just under the archway as he looked up at his dad. He was headed to the refrigerator in pursuit of what Harry could only imagine was an ale—or maybe something stronger like the whisky they kept in the freezer.

James looked over his shoulder as he pulled open the fridge, his lips pushing to the corner of his mouth as he lifted his eyes towards the ceiling in thought. "I mean…I can cook, but I doubt—"

"Yeah definitely not that." Harry widened his eyes to emphasise his point with a firm shake of his head, earning a small blip of laughter from James.

"Fair enough. Take away, then?"

"Chinese?"

"I'd rather not, we just had that earlier this week. What about fish and chips?"

"Eh…What about that bistro on 3rd street? 'Mione likes their Asian pear salad."

"Okay. I'll handle it—'bout an hour work?" James reached into the fridge, withdrawing an amber bottle that he lifted towards Harry with a raise of his brows.

Harry declined the offer of the beer with a shake of his head. "An hour works for me. I'll let her know." As he slipped from the room, his socked feet thumped loudly across the hardwood of the ground floor.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he made the climb to the second story quickly and moved to the bathroom at the end of the hall. Pausing just outside the door, he rapped his knuckles lightly against it.

"Come in."

Her voice was soft, still thick with sorrow and apprehension, and even though Harry couldn't see her just yet, he knew the look in her eyes conveyed the emotions she was unable to mask.

Turning the knob, Harry moved into the darkened bathroom and gently closed the door behind him, making sure not to so much as allow the wood to snap against the door frame. "How are you feeling?"

Hermione was still in the bathtub, thick bubbles clinging to the surface of the hot water, hiding the most intimate parts of her body. Her hair was piled high on her head, held with a precariously placed wand. "My head doesn't hurt anymore."

"Well that's always a good start." Harry crept across the room before lowering down to his knees beside the tub. Loosening the magic watch from his wrist, he tossed it onto the counter, letting it clatter to thelittered surface before he turned to face Hermione. "Any calmer?"

Lifting her hand from the water, she draped her arm over the rounded edge of the tub, droplets of water dripping off her fingertips, soaking into his denim clad thighs as she reached for him. "Sure… my thoughts are less manic and more calculated now."

Harry laced his fingers with hers, stroking his thumb across the back of her knuckles, making sure to linger at the wedding band to press the pad of his thumb affectionately against the martial runes. "Should I be worried or excited about that?"

"In your position? Excited. If you were the Minister? Worried." Hermione squeezed his hand before bending forward, small currents of water drifting around her torso as she leaned in to press a kiss against his fingers. She traced her lips with his knuckles, eyes glazing over with an almost far-away look as she looked down into the steamy waters, losing herself in what Harry could only imagine was a rather intricate plan to make the Ministry see the value in allowing polyamorous marriages.

"Hey—you were supposed to come in here and _relax_, remember?" Harry chided delicately. "I don't think scheming is a relaxation technique."

Hermione lifted her eyes from the water, the corner of his lips curving in a gentle grin. "You are aware that I won't be able to relax until I have a plan, right?"

"Of course, but I was hoping we could figure that out tomorrow after your thoughts have settled and you're in control of your magic again." Harry slowly pulled his hand from her hold as he pushed some of the fallen curls back off her forehead.

Leaning into his touch, Hermione's eyes drifted closed, momentarily giving in to the lull of Harry's magic that whispered against hers. She let her hands fall under the suds again, disappearing from view. Soon only the soft sounds of their breaths and the gentle flickers from the candles that Harry had lit for her earlier filled the room.

He wanted to tell her they'd fix it.

He wanted to promise her that they would be okay.

He wanted to take her pain, her anxiety, her fear away and make the world right.

And more than anything, he wanted her to be happy.

"Will you join me?" Her voice was barely above a whisper as she cracked open her eyes, peering up at him with a small twinkle of hope shimmering over the sadness that coloured her amber eyes.

Harry's brow furrowed, his head cocking to the side just a fraction of an inch. "In the bath?" The question seemed so daft, but it had been ages since Harry even considered climbing into the tub. Sure, he'd used the pool sized tub in the prefect's bath, but that was more about extracurricular activities and less about bathing or relaxing.

Hermione nodded, a small tinkle of breathy laughter dancing off her tongue as she shifted in the water until her kneecaps broke the sudsy surface and she scooted down, making room behind her. "Please?"

Harry hesitated—James was going to get dinner for them in an hour, and technically speaking, while he didn't have much paperwork to finish, he did have some reports due tomorrow that were in need of serious revision. But when she wrapped her arms around her legs, resting her chin on her knees, a small layer of bubbles covering her neck, Harry couldn't find it within himself to deny her.

His knees creaked in protest, popping audibly as he rose up onto them and pulled off his shirt, letting it gracelessly fall behind him. Using the side of the tub, Harry stood up and made quick work of unlatching his belt and unbuttoning his trousers. Pushing his trunks and jeans down in one motion, he peeled off his socks and left his clothing in a heap on the floor—likely in the danger zone for collecting water.

Although Hermione was most certainly well acquainted with his body, Harry couldn't help the soft bloom of pink on his cheeks as he stood under her watchful eye. He didn't hide his nakedness from her, but opted to make quick work of sliding into the hot water behind her.

His long legs slid on either side of her body, trapping her between his knees, and just as he settled back against the slope of the bathtub, Hermione scooted back until he felt her hips slide against his inner thighs.

Lowering her legs into the water once more, their limbs tangled beneath the bubbled surface as she leaned until her back was pressed tight against his front. Harry curled his arms over her shoulders, resting one palm against her chest, the soft beat of her heart acting as a marker for his own.

His eyes drifted closed when he felt the weight of her head against his shoulder, the soft tickle of her curls brushing against his skin. He tried to provide the strength, love, and support she so clearly needed through touch alone.

They laid under the hot water in silence for what felt like ages, their magic weaving together in unspoken words.

Hermione knew her fingers and toes were pruned and her skin was red from the magically charmed waters. She had admittedly spent far too much time in the safety of the bathroom, but she wasn't ready to leave just yet when facing the outside world meant potentially losing the men she loved.

"Harry?" Reaching up, she plucked his hand from her shoulder, lifting it in front of her to casually examine the size difference between their palms and the faded scar on the back of his hand, tracing the letters with her index finger.

"Hmm?"

"If…If they won't listen...if they break us up, you'll stay, right? You won't leave me and find some other witch who…who isn't hopelessly in love with two wizards—who will choose just you."

"What?" Harry withdrew his hand from her hold. She could feel him stiffen behind her, sitting more rigid in the water before he grasped her waist and turned her around until she straddled his lap.

The water sloshed from the bathtub with the rapid movement, splashing messily across the floor, but before she could so much as protest or scold him for making a mess, he lifted a hand to her jaw, holding her gaze. "'Mione, I won't ever—_ever_ go anywhere."

Her hands rested against his shoulders, thumbs brushing across the sharp angle of his clavicle nervously. "I know…I _do_, but—"

"But nothing. You're it for me…you've always been _it_. And I'm sorry but if what the three of us have is so bloody wrong, why does it feel right? Why does it feel like it was meant to happen?" Harry lifted his brows, emerald eyes shining as he cocked his head to the side. "I know you don't believe in fate—"

"Because it's rubbish."

"—but even _you _can admit there is something about this that just feels… I don't know, by design?" He let his hand trail down her jaw, fingertips brushing across the column of her neck.

Of course she felt it—how could she not when it felt as if their union was damn near written into the essence of the universe? How could she ignore the way their magic weaved into the spaces of her heart, filling voids she didn't know existed? How could she deny the longing she felt for _both_ men? It wasn't just sexual in nature, it was almost as if she needed them like she needed air to breathe—like they had been the thing missing from her life for so long, even though they had been there the entire bloody time.

"I do." Her tongue darted out, moistening her lips as she nodded. "But…What I'm wanting isn't normal. It isn't—"

"According to whom? The Minister? The Wizengamot?" Harry wrinkled his nose, his lips lifting in a small sneer as he shook his head. "Fuck don't get to tell us what's normal or not when they can't feel what we feel."

Tars lined her lower lids, the overwhelming emotion of realising that Harry was willing to stand—to fight _with _her, for _them_—regardless of the consequences was almost too much to take. "So, you'll do this with me? You'll fight?"

"Hermione…I've ridden on the back of a dragon, swallowed very questionable potions, and faced a bloody basilisk _with you_." Harry laughed, his smile widening with each memory as he spoke. "Facing the Ministry pales in comparison to our past. Truth be told, there isn't a damn thing I wouldn't do with you—_for you_."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Song: Starlight by Muse

Sorry for the delay! I am starting a new job and hope to settle into a routine here soon while posting and such. Hang tight folks! I can still promise 1 chapter a week. :)

until next time. xx


	17. Chapter 17

_What if I can't be all that you need me to be?  
We've got a good thing going, we have some promises to keep.  
But my addiction, it can be such a detriment.  
Please believe in this my dear, I am more than penitent._

* * *

His life felt like it was revolving around paperwork.

When James took this promotion nearly ten years ago, he'd never fathomed it would require _this_ much bloody parchment to sort through on a daily basis.

Everyone wanted something—requests for time off or purchasing, pending warrants, and even personnel transfers. Every last one of them required his review, and subsequent signature.

He'd debated charming a quill to sign the bloody things _for _him, but the Ministry required his physical signature—even going as far as to use charm-resistant parchment on certain documents.

Cracking his fingers, James flexed the ache from his bones as he rolled his head, eyes firmly planted on the length of parchment before him that contained a rather extensive list of recent releases from their holding cells. He needed to sign off on their release _and _the paperwork needed to expunge the charges from their records.

And while he clearly had no issue with that, he felt obligated to double check the roster, wanting to make sure that every person was accounted for. Truthfully, he probably should have asked Sariah to do it for him—something so bloody tedious wasn't really a smart use of his time.

But that daft Potter-white-knight syndrome won out over logic, per usual. He felt responsible, after all, it had been his signature on the warrants that landed them in the holding cells in the first place.

Picking up the beautiful pheasant feather quill that lay on the corner of his desk, he curled his fingers around the elegant shaft, and just as he dipped the metal tips into the purple pot of ink beside his parchment, his office door burst open without warning.

"Bloody hell!" James jolted, knocking over the ink pot, splashing purple across the parchment and his writing pad beneath. Tossing his quill on his desk, he fumbled for his wand, frantically trying to stem the flow of ink that was cascading down the length of his desk, threatening to ruin the crisp white of his oxford.

"_Evanesco!"_ The sparkle of blue magic burst from the end of his wand, spreading across the purple ink like wildfire before the mess—ruined parchment included—was gone with a flash.

"I'm going to murder Pius, and then I'm going to hex that fucking _cunt_ in the Magical Marriages Division!"

James' head snapped up, wand still poised in his hand as he gawked at his wife who had already begun pacing the width of his office. Her heels snapped on the marble floor, while her hand curled around the periwinkle piece of parchment she was animatedly waving in front of her.

"I can't bloody believe they're doing this to me—after everything I've done! Everything I gave up! Because of what? A little bit of accidental magic?!" Her jaw was set, whiskey colored eyes lost in the fog of her ire as she moved quickly in front of his desk like a caged lioness just waiting to pounce on its prey.

"Hermione, what—what are talking about?" James rose from his chair, letting his wand fall down to his desk with a soft clatter as he moved around to shut the door she'd left wide open. He flashed a halfhearted, contrite smile at the Aurors who sat outside his office, most of whom were trying to organize their own documents with a newfound interest as they listened in on her rant.

"They're putting me on leave, James!" She spun on her heel, nostrils flaring as she thrust the periwinkle parchment against his chest. "Indefinite leave—which is really code for fucking firing me, but Pius clearly doesn't have the spine to put _that _into writing."

James stumbled backward under the push, hands scrambling to catch the wrinkled parchment before it hit the floor. He lifted it up, adjusting his glasses higher his nose, hazel eyes flicking over the typeface that splashed across the page in black ink thick, well-saturated into the parchment. Whoever authored this intended to leave zero confusion about its meaning—they were going to try and quietly shuffle Hermione out of Ministry employment.

"Wow…this is—"

"A load of Hippogriff shite!" Hermione finished for him, physical manifestations of her magic snapping around her like firecrackers, sending sparks skittering across the marble floor. "Well, this obviously can't happen. I won't let them! They can't just—just force me from my work because I don't agree with their daft amendment."

James swept his tongue across his lips, slowly lifting his eyes over the parchment to watch as she began to pace once more. It was like he could see the gears spin within her mind—whirling at a break-neck speed to keep up with the rapid pace of mind as it moved from one thought to the next.

The way her mind worked was captivating. James could spend hours just listening to her explain the intricacies of mermaid territory feuds, and the way the House Elves' relationship with magic was more pure than wizards. It was all so captivating—the way her eyes would shine when she'd lose herself in thought, and her mouth would form that little 'o' when some new thought fluttered to the forefront of her mind. James simply couldn't believe how lucky he was to have found a witch like her.

Beautiful and smart.

His attraction to Hermione was more than skin deep. James valued her mind just as much as her beauty—if not more.

But it was moments like these—ones where she was so consumed that he was truthfully just a little scared of the power she possessed.

"How about you take a seat, love? I'll have Sariah pick up some sandwiches from the canteen and we can discuss—"

"What?" Pulled from her train of thought, Hermione turned to face him, thin arms crossed over her chest, fingers tapping a rapid rhythm against her bicep through her flowy blouse. "_No_. I don't have time to sit and eat lunch! I need to go see the Minster."

"I'm sorry—come again?"

"The Minister, James! You know, that daft clown you answer to." Hermione waved her hand towards the framed picture that hung upon his wall of him and Pius. It had been snapped the day his promotion was finalized. Both men looked happy, eager to forge a new partnership and create a better, _safer_ Wizarding Britain. Of course, that was several hundred grey hairs and countless glasses of firewhisky ago.

Before Voldemort's public return.

Before that fucking mess of a Triwizard Cup.

Before the second wizarding war.

Before he'd watched his only son die and resurrect.

Before this bloody Decree.

It felt like a lifetime ago, and while the picture hung on his wall as a reminder of the reason he took this promotion in the first place, it was beginning to feel more like a long forgotten memory than a keepsake.

"I don't think that would be a good idea, love." James shifted his weight between his feet, shuffling awkwardly beside his closed office door. His left thumb fiddled with his wedding band, spinning it around his ring finger as he watched her stiffen at his words. Merlin help him, this wasn't going to be easy. Based on the fire that engulfed her eyes, James could sense the upcoming blaze that awaited him.

But he couldn't take it personally.

She was upset.

Hermione loved her job. He _knew_ this. She was just upset.

"Excuse me?"

"I just think you might want to cool off a bit before requesting a meeting is all." James lifted his hands innocently, waving the proverbial white flag as he leaned against the wall. "Pius is clearly playing hardball, and you're…_Well,_ you're not in the right state to walk into that office, love. You've already had to be escorted from the Ministry once this week and— "

"Are you…are you implying I'm overreacting?" she interrupted, her jaw clenching as a new wave of magic snapped from her fingertips, sending silvery wisps shimmering across the floor like cracks in ice. It spiderwebbed along his floor, ending just at the toes of his polished loafers.

"_What?_ No! Gods, of course not," James rushed out. "Hermione, I—"

"Because if I'm being bloody honest, your _lack_ of reaction is rather upsetting. I was just put on leave because I wouldn't sign their bloody paper!"

"Technically, you were put on leave because you assaulted another employee."

James was smart—sometimes.

However, _this_ was clearly not one of those times, because the moment the words left his mouth, he realised how bloody stupid they were. Magic sliced through the air, the sulfuric sizzle stinging his nostrils before he had to duck to avoid a bolt of energy that rolled off her like lightning, striking the door with a loud _crack!_

"Assaulted?! I didn't bloody assault her! Merlin, James, are you even _listening_ to what you're saying?! You're practically defending him! The Ministry and Pius have no place in our marriage, and yet you're—you're willing to follow their edict without even a second thought!" As if the frantic energy that poured off her and penetrated his soul wasn't bad enough, the tears in her voice immediately brought James to heel.

"Hermione, no. I—I'm not defending him I just...you have to understand that this is complicated for me." He moved half a step towards her, hand outstretched, lingering just before her wrist, scared to close the distance or spook her. "I love you—Gods, I do. More than anything, _but_ this is my job, and I love what I do as well. I just...I mean, I don't see the problem with signing that paper. We can still be together, it just won't be through their eyes."

The sizzle of magic in the room vanished, like a blown out candle, and in turn, the feeling of Hermione's presence inside him seem to retreat, leaving a vast emptiness that surrounded his heart. For the first time since their union just a few short weeks ago, James was painfully reminded of what he felt like before being with Hermione.

Empty.

Cold.

Lonely.

He stumbled back from the suddenness of her magic's departure, a hand moving to rest against his chest as he tried to remember how to breathe without her essence playing with his own.

"I can't..." She paused, her voice unsteady, thick with tears, and James could hear the pain penetrating each gasp she took. He watched, helpless to the wave of emotion that began to cloud his mind. "James, I can't believe you'd even suggest that."

He fucked up.

There was no fire left in her eyes, no fight clouding her judgment. Instead, the woman who stood before him looked pained. Broken. Fragile. Like she might shatter into a million little pieces if the wind blew in just the right direction.

"I'm sorry." His whisper cracked his throat, sounding harsh and tinny, and when he leaned forward to reach for her once more, Hermione backed up. Whisky-coloured eyes flashed down to his outstretched palm before she looked up with a shake of her head.

"Don't." Lifting her hand, Hermione took another step back, heels clipping the tile. Her lower lip quivered, tears already streaking down her cheeks. "Just don't."

"Hermione—"

"No!" Her arms wrapped around her frame, fingers curling into the soft fabric of her blouse. "I thought…I thought I'd made myself clear. I thought you knew how I felt. Why this was so important. But you don't care. Not about me, or Harry, or—or what we have."

"I do! I just…I—"

"You want to choose your work over us. You're prioritizing the one place that has turned its back on you multiple times, James. You're choosing the Ministry over your family." The words cut far deeper than he cared to admit. He'd had this same fight with a woman he'd loved decades before.

The blow to his heart made his knees weak as memories of that night—that fateful bloody night where he ran off to join the chaos of the first war instead of staying home—replayed in his mind.

James was not a man without fault. No, he had plenty, even he knew that, but he'd assumed he'd outgrown the most detrimental flaw—the one that had literally ended his marriage.

He could feel his own tears collect on his lower lids as he watched Hermione crumble before him, wet streaks traveling down her splotchy red cheeks, dripping onto the pretty pink of her blouse, staining her attire with the evidence of their row.

His mouth opened and closed several times. At each instance, he thought he might know the words to utter to bring her into his arms. The words that might be able to fix the grave error he'd made, but he found them all inadequate.

The truth was he _had _prioritized his work over her.

He _had_ done exactly what she was accusing him of, and there was not an ounce of his person that could deny it.

"I'm going home…I—I'll see you later." She brushed past him, knuckles already dragging under her eyes to wipe away fallen tears, and before he could so much as reach for her, she was gone.

His office door swung, the soft clatter of his metal blinds snapping against the glass pane, and he turned to watch her move through the row of Aurors' desks that lined the walkway, curls bouncing with each hurried step as she approached the exit.

His magic sought hers, grasping, searching to fill that empty space inside his heart, but he knew without any doubt she wouldn't respond.

Not now.

Not while the wound he left was still so fresh and raw.

He could feel eyes on him, peering over the tops of parchment stacks, and behind propped up legislation books. Judging him. But whether it was for making his wife cry, or for staying married to a woman who was also wed to another, he'd never know.

Tightening his jaw, James gulped down the lump in his throat and forced back his unshed tears. "Alright, back to work," he barked to the room, hand curling around the cold brass doorknob. With one final sweep over the crowd, making sure that everyone was back to work instead of frozen like the statues that lingered in the atrium, James shut his office door with a snap. Only once he'd made sure the blinds were drawn, and that no one—absolutely _no one_—could see him, he allowed himself to crumble.

He'd sworn to himself that he'd never make the same mistake again—that he'd never put anything before the ones he loved.

But by trying to protect them, he feared he might have just cost himself more than what it was worth.

* * *

Some habits were hard to break, especially after years of practice.

He still bit his nails.

He still tapped his toes whenever he was nervous.

He still ate the gummy slugs in order of the colours in the rainbow.

And just like every over habit in his life, whenever James found himself in trouble, he sought out his best friends: Moony and Sirius, his forever companions.

Once upon a time, they'd had a fourth member in their little rag-tag bunch, but time was fickle, and Voldemort's reign reached further than any of them had ever dreamed.

Even still, the three friends persisted. Through decades. Through tears. Through strife. They were, as Minnie once clucked during her bi-monthly tea with the group, everlasting.

"So, what did you do this time?" Sirius cocked a brow from the end of the couch. He sat with his socked feet up on the table, a hole worn through the bottom left heel, with a casual indifference about James' sudden appearance.

Draping his coat over the back of an armchair, James let out a soft chuckle as he claimed the space on the opposite end of the couch. "It's nice to see you too, Pads."

"Play nice, Sirius," Remus clucked from the entryway, where he levitated a tray behind him. On it sat three sandwiches hastily thrown together. Always the mother-hen of their little circle of friends, Moony had practically jumped up to gather lunch provisions for his visit when James stumbled through the Floo. "This is the first time Prongs has come to visit since his wedding—wouldn't want to scare him off for longer."

It was meant in jest, James knew, but he couldn't prevent the grimace that twisted his face. "I'm a shite friend, aren't I?"

Sirius dropped his feet to the floor and sat up straight when Remus nudged him, gray eyes flashing fondly at the werewolf, before he turned his attention back to James. "I mean…You're not perfect, but no one can expect to meet my level of excellence."

"You're fine," Remus snorted, rolling his eyes as he claimed the middle cushion on the couch, laying the tray on the coffee table before he began to hand out the plates he'd put together. "I would imagine work has been a bit…hectic."

"I think ghastly might be more precise, but hectic will do." James set his plate on the arm of the couch, casually lifting the top of the bread, double checking that his friend hadn't tried to sneak any vegetables, or worse, mustard into his sandwich. "How are you two? It feels like ages—how is everything going?"

Remus and Sirius shared a look, something torn between humour and hesitation.

"You want the honours, Moony?" Sirius questioned as he fished a crisp off his plate and popped it into his mouth. "Or shall I?"

"What?" James frowned, glancing to the other wizards.

Remus shrugged, poking his crisps around on his plate until they were lined up just so, before he dared to lift his jade green eyes to find James' quizzical stare. "Um...Padfo—Sirius and I have some news."

"...Uh-huh."

"Well, the Decree...It sort of brought an unexpected change to our lives." Remus leaned forward, laying his plate on the coffee table before turning to face James directly, tucking his leg underneath him. "One that neither Sirius nor myself really fully understood until…well, until we were all married."

"Wait—just give me a moment," James rushed out, his tongue darting nervously across his lips. "If you're about to tell me one of you is madly in love with Ginny, I'm going to need something a lot stronger than fizzy drink."

"Baby Weasley? Ha!" Sirius barked out a sharp laugh before taking a large bite of his ham sandwich, chewing loudly on the mouthful as he shook his head. "No, Ginevra was all too happy to step aside."

"Padfoot!" Remus's words sliced across the room, and James didn't even need to see Moony to know _the look_ he was giving their friend.

Swallowing with an audible gulp, Sirius wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "What? You were taking too bloody long!"

"I was trying to break the news delicately."

"Well, I hardly think Prongs needs kid gloves." Sirius rolled his eyes, hand still holding his sandwich gesturing towards him, causing a bit of the ham to flap about with each jostle. "He's been friends with us for ages. I doubt the change in our relationship status will matter much."

"Relationship status?" James echoed, his brows creeping up his forehead as he glanced between his two friends with growing curiosity. The inklings of attraction between the pair were hard to ignore. Even James, who was easily the most oblivious Marauder, had been able to see the way Remus and Sirius looked at one another.

Like they needed each other to breathe.

Like the centre of their universe began and ended on the opposite.

Like they were kismet.

"Yes, you see, Sirius and I—"

"We're in a relationship. Sharing the same room, raising Teddy, _shagging_—the whole bloody deal," Sirius interrupted Remus, kicking his feet up on the coffee table, nearly knocking James' plate to the floor. "Honestly, Moons, I don't see why you're making a big deal about this."

"Sirius Orion! Are you fucking kidding me?" Remus growled, pinching the bridge of his nose as he took in a deep breath. "Because this _is _a big deal, you bloody buffoon."

"To whom? We didn't spend much time deliberating—and Merlin knows Teddy doesn't think much of it when he crawls into our bed in the morning. I'm beginning to—"

"Padfoot." James tried his best to suppress his laugh as he watched the pair begin to quarrell, acting as if he wasn't literally on the same couch with them. "Moony?"

"—hide you? Salaazar's sack, like that's even an option. Sirius, you're more bloody flamboyant than Liberace!"

"I'm not sure who he is, or if that's an insult, so I am _choosing_ to take it as a compliment. Just so you know."

"Exactly my bloody point! You're a walking neon sign."

"Guys!" James' sharp tone cut through their row, quickly pulling their attention back towards him. Pushing off the couch, James waved his hand over his plate, vanishing it before he claimed the spot on the coffee table so he could face both of his friends.

A small smirk was already lifting his lips, hands clasped between his knees, and his elbows pressed gently into his thigh so his spine curled. "I don't bloody care whom you date—I mean, I _care_ but not…entirely?" When his words only seemed to drain some colour from Remus' cheeks, James quickly realised his error. "No! I care! I do. I just—this isn't surprising? I love you both, like brothers, but it's been fairly obvious the way you two feel about one another isn't…well, let's just say it's not very brotherly?"

Sirius snorted, his hand slapping loudly against his thigh. "Bloody hell, Prongs, you're really shite at this sort of thing, aren't you?"

"Oh shut it. He's fine." Remus leaned forward, laying a hand on James wrist, a fondness twinkling in his jade eyes. "Thank you."

"For what?" James laughed, a hand already ruffling the hair on the back of his neck—a nervous tell that he hadn't been able to shake, even after decades on the force. "Sticking my boot in my mouth?"

"For accepting us—for not thinking it odd that we want to be together after years of friendship."

"I think you two ending up together is probably the least _odd_ thing to come out of the Decree." Perhaps it should have felt odd, but seeing them together, the way Remus wrapped his hand around Sirius' and gave it a little squeeze, it felt like the most natural thing—like they'd always been together. "What…uh…How is this all working out with Ginny and you both? Technically speaking, isn't she supposed to choose one of you?"

"She already did." Sirius lifted Remus' hand, pressing a soft kiss against the back of his palm. "Submitted the paperwork the day after we got it in the post."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Moony was waffling over what we were going to do and she came waltzing in with everything handled. Smart witch, that one." Sirius gave Remus' hand one last kiss before snatching his wand off the end table, and with a quick flourish, he summoned an envelope from across the room.

Plucking the levitating letter from mid-air, Sirius held it out for James to take before he draped his arm across the back of the couch in a relaxed lean that reminded James of the many nights they'd spent spread out in the Gryffindor common room all those years ago.

Unfolding the letter, James held it aloft as he scanned the words. It was a response to Ginny's selection, announcing that they'd accepted her decision, and congratulating her on her nuptials with a Mr Remus J. Lupin.

"So, you're married to her?" James cocked a brow, hazel eyes lifting over the top of the letter to look at his friend.

"In name only." Remus folded his hands in his lap, fingers smoothing the wrinkles from his trousers. "She didn't figure the Ministry would reassign anyone to Padfoot—what with his panache for the dramatics. So, she opted to take my family name. Until we can divorce that is."

"And she's okay with it? Being married to a man who's dating someone else?" James wasn't entirely sure what the proper term for what Sirius and Remus were doing was. After all, if one looked at it subjectively enough, they might consider the first thirty years of the pair's friendship as foreplay for the rest of their lives. Dating felt so juvenile considering they appeared to still be living together—never mind the fact that it also clearly meant Sirius was becoming more of a parent to Remus' son instead of the fun-loving uncle.

"Hardly. She saw this as the perfect opportunity. She can continue her career without having to deal with _actually_ being forced to participate in a marriage she doesn't want, and we can be together without the Ministry's disapproving glare," Sirius explained, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm on the back of the couch. "Speaking of—how's all _this_ working out over at the Potter household? Last I heard, Hermione was quite happy being made the middle of a father-son sandwich."

"Oh dear Gods, Padfoot." Remus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "After all these years, you might assume I am used to his lack of discretion, but no. No, I don't think I'll ever grow accustomed to it. I should apologize for him, now that I'm officially claiming him, but honestly? I'd rather not."

"Wouldn't make a difference anyway. He'll never stop." James straightened his spine, a bashful smile lifting his lips as he leaned back on the coffee table. "But it's…uh…Well, let's just say my pop in today wasn't exactly spur of the moment."

"That bad?" Remus' expression softened as he turned his attention away from Sirius. "I know you've fancied her for quite some time—"

"Did everyone bloody know?" James groaned.

"Yes," Sirius deadpanned. "Everyone knew."

"Great. That's bloody _fantastic_."

"We never minded! She's a grown woman and—I don't know. It was nice to see you had a pulse after being single for so bloody long." Remus was far from wrong and James knew it. It had been ages since he'd felt like that about anyone.

The feelings Hermione spurred felt new—yet familiar. Like two opposing sides of the same coin. They waged a war inside him, battling for dominance, and begging him not to let her go.

He didn't want that. Merlin, he wanted to keep things precisely as they were. As unconventional as it was, James found happiness in sharing his wife with Harry. Seeing them together didn't stir feelings of jealousy or ill-will. How could it when he'd seen the way they were destined for one another for so many years? Instead, he found himself happy to see them so content with one another. He wanted them to be together, as long as it meant there was still space in her heart for him as well.

And without recourse, that nagging realisation that he just might have ruined his chances at finding a lasting happiness with the one witch who'd stolen his heart after many years of being woefully alone sunk in.

Because as much as it scared him, as much as he wanted to deny how unhappy it would make him, James knew, without a shred of doubt in his mind, that he couldn't part from Hermione.

Not legally, and definitely not figuratively.

"Yeah, well…don't get too used to it." James let his eyes drop to the floor, staring at the scuffed toes of his loafers as his hand rose to ruffle the hair on the back of his neck.

"What did you do?" Sirius' baritone took on a level of protectiveness that brought forth a small tickle of laughter. They would always be friends—more than friends, truthfully. Brothers. But James knew very well that the loyalty Sirius had developed for his wife surpassed their own friendship in some ways.

Sirius found a common bond with the witch, a long lost sister that he felt he needed to protect. He took her under his wing when she needed it most, and somehow, through the process of building her up, Hermione managed to weasel her way into the most aloof Marauder's heart. She brought forth a humility from Sirius that he had never possessed before, and Circe, she was the only person James was aware of that could literally scold him into submission.

She was, by all intents and purposes, Sirius' only family member, and it was clear in his tone that he would not stand for _anyone_ hurting her—even James.

James slowly lifted his eyes to find Sirius already perched on the edge of the couch, elbows pressing into his thighs as he leaned towards him. The look was intended to be menacing, to let James know he meant business, but it was all James could do not to burst out in laughter.

To others, the look might've inspired hesitation. Maybe even fear.

However, all James could see was a narrowed gaze that looked closer to one he wore when he'd eaten sweets too quickly than real fury.

"I _might_ have encouraged her to end our relationship and choose Harry."

"And I take it she doesn't want that?" Remus lifted a brow.

"You could say that. She likes our current arrangement, and truthfully, I would be hard pressed to deny the comfort of what we've come to know over the past couple of weeks."

"Then why on earth would you encourage her to be with Harry?"

Sirius tossed his hand towards James with an exasperated sigh. "Because he's a self-sabotaging idiot that enjoys misery."

"Well, that's a bit harsh, isn't it? He was trying to be noble. Do right by Hermione." Remus leaned forward to pat his knee gently in a gesture that felt more akin to something his mum would do than something his friend of three decades would.

"Doing right by Hermione would be respecting her wishes. She can make up her own damn mind about whom she wants to marry." Sirius crossed his arms over his chest, falling back on the couch with a dramatic puff of air. "Beyond the blatantly obvious way you two are quite literally perfect for one another, I'd also like to point out how bloody vocal she has been about her happiness with you both. I've only seen her a handful of times since she moved out, but every damn time, she's made sure to mention how idyllic her life is with you and Harry."

James sighed, his eyes drifting down to the floor once more. "I wouldn't go that far."

"Neither would I, but those are her words, _not_ mine," Sirius snapped back. "Look, Prongs, I love you and I love her, so for Nimue's sake, could you put a pin in that foolish notion about ending things and just be bloody happy for once."

"It's not really that easy, Padfoot. My job—"

"Your job is to run the DMLE, not be a bloody martyr."

"Pads is right. You're allowed to be happy, James. And if being in a polyamorous marriage is what makes you happy, then why fight it?" Remus began. "You've dedicated your life to helping the Ministry of Magic—maybe it's time to put your own desires ahead of what Pius wants."

"And how the hell am I going to do that when what I want—what Hermione and Harry want is illegal? It's literally in direct contradiction to what we are supposed to be enforcing."

Sirius let out a quick laugh that felt too harsh to be born of anything but incredulity. "You follow the law, but don't make it easy. No one is asking you to go start a riot in the atrium, but don't sign the bloody papers until you're absolutely forced. And even then, find a way to delay it until you can have the type of life you want. _Legally._ You fight them from the inside, Prongs. Just like we used to."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Song: Little Hell by City and Colour

So I know a lot of you were very keen on the Remus/Ginny/Sirius and I hate to crush your dreams—but I hope my humble offering of WolfStar is enough!

As you might have noticed, I started a new fic, so my updates on this are going to back to once per week (Thursdays) as I am going to update both fics each week!—I know, I know. I'm technically late this week. Blame The Witcher & my inability to not turn the thing off! I hope ya'll enjoyed today's update. I think you'll like where this is going. ;)

Until next time. xx


	18. Chapter 18

_Cause we never learned to keep our voices down  
No, we only learned to shout  
So we fight our way in  
And we fight our way out_

* * *

In times of trouble, Hermione returned to the one place that she knew would be able to provide some guidance—the library.

Or rather, the Potter's study.

Brimming with old books, some questionable magazines, and pamphlets she was fairly certain were centuries outdated, the Potter's study was a sight to behold. She threw herself into the hidden secrets of literature, hoping to find something trapped inside the tomes that might act as the foundation of her argument for keeping their marriage.

She had made it halfway through a dog-eared text on Wizarding Law from the Industrial Revolution when a soft knock on the door pulled her attention from the faded print.

Harry stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling up the space near perfectly. A navy henley clung to his chest, the small row of buttons undone, revealing just a hint of black hair that peppered his chest beneath.

He'd come home earlier in the afternoon, after, she assumed, he'd received word from his father about her termination and the row they'd had. Being the kind, gentle, sensible man she'd always known him to be, Harry did not utter a word about her loss. Instead, he pressed a kiss to her cheek, held her for just a moment, as he always did, and offered his assistance should she need it.

He'd left her alone so she could properly lose herself in the volumes of books, and only popped in twice through the rest of the day—once with a plate of fruit and crisps for lunch, and the other for a warm cuppa. It was moments like these, when he was able to provide the exact type of support she needed, that acted as a pleasant reminder of just how far they'd come.

Harry had been her constant companion, always there to dry her eyes when she was sad, to celebrate her triumphs, and despite his rather vocal disdain, he never missed a revision session. He was her husband now, but moreover, Harry was still her best friend.

"I think it's time for a break." He wore that lopsided grin well, holding onto that boyish charm that time couldn't seem to steal from his features.

Hermione's fingers twitched against the soft parchment, '_five more minutes'_ already perched on the tip of her tongue on instinct. She was close to something big—something that might be able to provide some historical context to plural marriage within the wizarding community, but she lacked the connections. Why did the law change from the middle ages to modern day? Why was she able to find concrete proof of the practice until the early 1400's when the sudden the mention of magical marriages was gone, struck from the history books until the Magical Marriage Act of 1621.

Questions swirled deep within her mind, driving her forward despite the hunger pains that clenched her gut. She was _so close_, and if she had just a bit longer…

"Come on." Harry pushed off the doorframe, bare feet slapping against the wooden floor, and before she could voice even a noise in protest, he was pulling back the swivel chair and gently plucking the book from her hands. "And before you complain too much, just know I made your favorite. Cheese toastie and tomato soup."

Her socked feet slipped across the flooring, unable to gain any sort of traction, and she pouted as Harry turned her chair to face him. His hands curled around each arm as he leaned down to press a gentle kiss on her forehead. "You know, it's rather unfair when you do that."

"Hrm?" Harry cocked a brow, his head tilting ever so slightly to the side in that puppy dog look that seemed to melt away any resolve she had to tell him she'd take dinner in the study.

"Come in all charming… talking about how you've made dinner and such." Hermione waved her hand in the narrow space that separated them. "It's rather difficult to say no."

A billow of laughter danced off his tongue, his smile stretching wide across his lips. "Well, that _is_ the intention." His hand moved to take hers, and in one fluid movement, he pulled her from the chair.

"Clearly," Hermione returned with a small laugh, allowing Harry to lead her from the room with a gentle tug down the hallway towards the kitchen. The smell of buttered bread hit her first. Warm and rich, it made her stomach grumble with the sudden realisation that while the cuppa and fruit had been able to hold her over, she was most definitely in need of greater sustenance.

Pulling her hand from Harry's, Hermione moved towards the end of the counter where two steaming bowls sat next to a single plate stacked with several toasties. "Oh, you cut them properly!" Hermione glanced over her shoulder, eyes positively dancing, before she turned back to pull a triangular half from the plate.

"Only you think that." Harry settled up beside her, pressing his elbow into the tiled countertop as he took the other half. "I didn't feel much like arguing why a square cut was better—you know that old saying, right?"

"Happy wife, happy life?"

Harry wrinkled his nose, quickly swallowing the large mouthful as he gave her a firm shake of his head. "No… never debate Hermione Granger." He wagged his toastie at her before taking another bite, careful not to pull the tomato from the middle as he winked.

"Harry!" Her jaw dropped, eyes narrowing in mock disbelief and she lifted her own half toastie to her mouth, nibbling some of the crust from the corner before she dipped it into her bowl of soup for another bite. "Regardless, thank you."

"For dinner?" Harry set his half eaten sandwich on the plate, and rubbed the crumbs from his fingers, before picking up his spoon to take a small slurp of soup. "No thanks is needed. Truthfully, it's rather selfish on my part. I was starving, and I was sick and tired of only seeing your hair when I'd pop into the study."

"No, not dinner—not that I don't appreciate it, but I'd hardly call grilling a toastie and warming up some soup a feat for your culinary prowess."

"Hey! Don't be so quick to judge, using a can opener can be very tricky. Just ask Ron. We've walked away with flesh wounds before."

"Ah yes, the sacrifices one makes for a tin of beans." Hermione laughed, biting her bottom lip. The easy camaraderie they fell into, even during what Hermione deemed to be the worst of times, was par none. It truly was no wonder James once thought the pair were fated.

But, for as much happiness and warmth that filled her heart as she stood beside Harry, eating the humble meal, there was a part of her that felt incomplete. There was a space in her heart that, no matter how much she wanted to ignore its aching emptiness, would never truly go away.

At least not until James was with them.

It was inexplicable, really, how suddenly and completely at ease she had found herself in her marriage to both Harry and James. Logic told her it made no sense, that she should only find happiness in monogamy—that she shouldn't _want_ them both.

Polyamory was not exactly mainstream in the Muggle world. She'd heard of it, obviously, but never in a positive context. It was always talked about in hushed whispers and judgmental tones. Once upon a time, she might have participated in the rumor mill, but that was before she knew what it was like. Before she found love with both men. Before she realised how perfectly they both fit in her heart.

As much as the logical side of her wanted to ignore the feeling—to deny what happiness it gave her and go back to a life lived without conflict—she would never be able to, not now that she knew the happiness it brought them. Not ever.

"You okay?"

The warmth of Harry's hand resting on top of her arm snapped her back to reality, and she lifted her eyes from where they'd drifted to stare at the dark grout between the brightly colored tiles as she nodded. Her lips pulled into a smile she knew didn't quite meet her eyes. "Yeah…Sorry, I was just thinking."

Harry squeezed her arm gently, his thumbs stroking across the softness of her skin, and he set down the half of the sandwich on the plate before turning to face her completely. "You want to talk about it?" There was a softness in his eyes that made Hermione's heart quiver.

He'd always been her best friend. Understanding, kind, and selfless. He'd had every opportunity to grow into a wizard who cared more about himself than the rest of the world, but against all odds, Harry hadn't. He'd stayed true to that gangly little boy she met on the train. Even now, when the focus should be on him considering the stressors of work, he was worried about the wayward thoughts that plagued her mind.

"Honestly? I'd rather not. But..." Chewing on her bottom lip, Hermione let the spoon rest in her bowl of soup, careful not to let it submerge in the steaming liquid. Pushing up off the counter, Hermione took a small step forward, closing the narrow space that separated them and she wrapped her arms around his waist. Her face instinctively went against his chest, nose nuzzling in the softness of his shirt, and she allowed his scent to caress her memories, bringing forth years of happy times they'd had together. "Can you just hold me for a minute?"

Her voice was small, meek and riddled with the uncertainty she'd been battling since the moment they'd received the letter from the Ministry.

"Of course, whatever you need." Harry didn't hesitate fulfilling her request. His arms moved around her, one hand pressing gently on her head, the other moving to stroke her back. She felt his lips at her temple, pressing tender kisses along her hairline.

They stood like that for what she was certain was too long, but in the moment didn't feel like long enough. For just a few seconds, she could feel his magic slip into the empty place in heart, filling the temporary void the best it could, but they both knew it would never be enough. It was an unspoken understanding—one Harry didn't even seem to bat an eye at, and for that, Hermione was thankful.

She hoped the row she'd had with James—the insistence that they do this _together,_ as a united front—didn't ruin what was blossoming between them. She knew that she was asking a lot, that he was risking more than she should truthfully ever ask: his job, his public image, and quite possibly some friendships.

The truth was, they were risks for them all. Clearly, the ramifications of her refusal were already in motion, and though she had no proof, she was certain this would not be the last of the snubs the Ministry would reign down upon her. But every tear shed, every case of accidental magic, every single flare of anger and sorrow and pain was worth it if at the end of it all she was able to live the life _she _wanted with the men _she_ chose.

Lifting her head so her chin could rest on the centre of his chest, Hermione smiled up at Harry, enjoying the feeling of his fingers working through her messy curls, twisting the ruined ringlets like he so often did.

"Better?"

"Half-way there."

"Well, it's a start." Harry leaned in, his lips ghosting across her forehead. "What do you say we finish up these toasties and maybe we can sit by the fire? I'll even read with you."

Hermione laughed, slowly unwinding her arms from his waist, the tips of her fingers dragging along the hemline of his henley, smoothing the waffled fabric against his denim trousers. "Wow," she said with mock surprise. "The Boy-Who-Lived reading a book on my behalf? I must be special."

"Whoa. Let's not get too hasty here—" Harry laughed, emerald eyes twinkling mischievously. "I never said _anything_ about a book. The newest issue of Quidditch Weekly came in and—"

"Harry!"

"Okay, okay." Harry lifted his hands in surrender, stepping out of her orbit. "I _guess_ I could finish that book on the history of the DMLE you gifted me last Christmas."

"You've got to be kidding me! Are you serious? It's October!"

"Yeah, and?"

"And I gifted it to you last December! You've had it for ten months and haven't finished it yet?!"

"I've been busy."

"But not busy enough to fall behind on _Quidditch Weekly_?"

Harry opened his mouth, prepared to give some sort of justifiable reason that she was certain would never meet her standards, but before even a syllable could slip from his tongue, the sound of the Floo igniting echoed in the sitting room.

Her eyes instantly snapped to the analog clock that sat atop their stove. She knew she'd spent most of the day in the study but surely it wasn't that late. The evening sun was still setting, which meant either James came home early, or something was wrong.

"Harry? Hermione?" The familiar baritone drifted through the house. It had been a couple weeks since she'd heard it last, but she would have recognized it anywhere.

"Sirius?" Socked feet carried her across the kitchen and she slipped into the sitting room, her brow already furrowed. "Is everything alright?"

The wizard was already halfway across the room, his hair spilling around a hastily thrown up bun, reigning wisps of inky black locks around his face. Gray eyes that normally held warmth, love, and happiness seemed devoid of any positive emotion. Instead, they were cold, fear and unease penetrating the beautiful starlight in a way she'd never seen before.

"Oh thank gods." He wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug and pressed his lips against her temple before moving to Harry. "You've got to go to the Ministry."

"What?" Harry returned the quick embrace, pulling back to look down at his uncle. "I just left. Look if James sent you down here—"

"No! He didn't send me down." A single hand smoothed over his features as he took in a staggered breath. "Your Dad was at my house for lunch, and I popped back to the Ministry with him—I had some paperwork to turn in for Moony—and well, none of that bloody matters right now because your dad's been arrested, Harry."

* * *

James had done a lot of stupid things in his life.

He'd used spells he shouldn't have.

He'd fought on the wrong side of the law.

He'd even used his limited power to force some legislation through, but he'd never, _ever_ been arrested.

He'd gone forty-two years with a clean record…until today.

The hold room felt much smaller than it ever had before. The four white walls gleaming at him under the harsh artificial light felt like a mockery of what this room was supposed to represent. Justice. Virtue. He wasn't entirely sure when the change began, when he'd noticed how biased and _wrong_ it all felt, but he knew it was well before the Decree.

Maybe sometime during the second war.

He couldn't blame Cornelius entirely. In fact, if he _had_ to pinpoint something, there _was _one moment in particular. The first time he'd ever felt like the system was broken, he'd gone to the then Minister, Fudge, to discuss what Harry had seen in the Triwizard Maze. He'd gone to him as not just the Head of the DMLE, but as a father, as a man, pleading to help figure out how to save his son.

He'd been told to keep quiet.

He'd been told Harry was a liar, and Voldemort wasn't back.

He'd been told that if he 'valued' his job, James would do well to keep Harry quiet as well.

That was just the beginning of what would turn out to be the worst four years of James' life. When he not only questioned the value of his job, the Ministry, and the world, but he'd lost countless hours of sleep for fear of getting an owl telling him of his son's demise.

But, those days were behind him now. The world was a safer, better place. He was _supposed_ to be proud of the work he was doing once more, but as he sat in the tiny white room, he couldn't help but wonder if maybe he'd gotten it all wrong. Maybe Hermione had been right.

Her fight wasn't just about keeping their family whole, it was about the freedoms that the Ministry was taking away. The freedom to choose who to marry, who to love. Because who bloody cared if it was one, two, or three people? Who cared if a wizard wanted to marry another wizard? Who bloody cared?

Their world was supposed to be about more than procreation and carrying on blood lines. They were supposed to be advanced! They were supposed to lead the way for Muggle society to follow, to set the foundation for the world leaders, yet here they were, enacting marriage laws and outlawing not only polyamorous marriages, but also same-sex unions.

Not only was he being forced to hide his unconventional marriage, but his best friends couldn't legally wed! Even without the bloody Decree, that would never be able to be together—at least in the eyes of the law.

And perhaps that was the final straw. seeing them together—_happy_—and knowing that they would forever be forced to live the farce of a life just to comply with what the Ministry dictated.

Even now, sitting in the holding cell, nursing his busted lip with a handkerchief Adleson had handed him before locking him up, the idea made him more furious than before.

Leaning back against the metal chair, James pulled the cloth away from his lip, letting out a small growl of frustration as he assessed the size of the bloodied stain that only seemed to grow larger with each passing minute.

A bright flash of purple light flared to life across the room, pulling his attention away from the handkerchief, and James sat up, straightening his spine in preparation for what he assumed was one of his Aurors coming in to read him his charges.

He watched silently, simmering with rage as the outline of the door slowly materialized on the blank wall.

It opened slowly to reveal his wife, all hell-fire and fury evident in the way she moved past Maurice, the rookie who'd likely pulled the short end of the stick. She didn't utter a single word as she stormed into the room, but the moment their eyes met, the hardness disappeared, replaced by a gut wrenching worry. "James."

James rose from the table quickly, sending the metal chair rattling across the floor as he moved around the table to pull her into his arms. He tucked his head into her curls, fingers sinking into the soft jumper she wore as he pulled her impossibly close. "I'm sorry—I'm _so _sorry, love."

Her thin arms tightened around his neck, fingers carding through the hair on the back of his head, and as if in time, he felt her magic return to him.

Warm. Comforting. _Home._

Hermione's presence inside him was unlike anything he'd ever felt, an instant relief to his worries, the same sense of comfort he'd found after stepping into a hot shower at the end of a long day. He felt like she'd always belonged to him, like maybe she always would. The universe was designed for her to fit into his arms—into his heart.

"James...what happened?" Hermione pulled back, just enough to look at him. This was far from the first time she'd seen him injured, they'd lived through a war together, but now, it was somehow different. The world was calm. They weren't fighting to stay alive. Somehow, knowing that somehow made it worse, like whoever did this to him wasn't just misguided by a silver tongued devil, but truly upset with him.

Lifting her hand, Hermione brushed her fingertips across his cheek, eyes softening as she took in the large gash that ran just under his right eye, the deep purple bruise that had already begun to form on his left cheek, and his swollen lip. "Merlin, James."

James turned his head towards her hand, lips pressing a tender kiss across her wandering fingers, and he smiled when her palm cupped his jaw. "Nothing—_nothing_ of importance."

"I wouldn't say it's nothing." Harry's voice drifted across the room, and James looked over his shoulder to find the source. He stood in the doorway, his arms crossed, a deep frown tugging down his lips. He'd thrown his Auror robes over his street clothing, and had yet to even button them to hide his haste. "You look like shite."

"Yeah? You should see the other guy."

"_James,_" Hermione clucked disapprovingly.

Harry snorted, his index finger tapping against his bicep, but despite his best efforts, his lips pulled up in a small smile. He glanced over his shoulder, making sure their escort was not lingering in the doorway before he looked back to his dad. "I did. Lucien looked worse than I did after taking that bewitched bludger."

"Old man's still got it, then?"

"Most definitely."

"Are you really bragging about a fist fight?" Hermione's lips pursed as she looked between her husbands. Both wore expressions that looked eerily reminiscent of ones she'd seen Harry and Ron wear countless times during their years growing up—guilty, but far from willing to admit the truth for fear of earning her wrath. With a small sigh, Hermione shook her head, arms crossing over her bust. "I cannot believe you two. This is serious."

James shot Harry a sidelong glance, grimacing before mouthing 'later' to him. "Let me be the first to assure you, I understand how serious this is seeing as I'm the only one of us who took several punches to the face—"

"Wait. This"—She motioned towards his face—"is because of our marriage?"

"Uh…inadvertently, yes."

"To be fair, Lucien is also a fucking prick," Harry offered, his hands sliding into the front pocket of his trousers. "So, I'm certain whatever the reason, it's valid."

"What _was_ the reason?" Hermione cocked a brow. "Because being an arsehole isn't typically enough of a reason for physical violence."

"Oh yes, because Magical violence would have been acceptable," Harry murmured.

"_Any_ violence." Hermione shot daggers across the room at her younger husband who only broke into laughter at her glare.

James watched the pair with growing affection, his hand covering his smile as he moved to lean on the table, kicking his legs out to cross at the ankle. "I got a new warrant today, and…I told them that I wouldn't sign off."

"A warrant for what?" Hermione gulped, a slow sense of worry beginning to form in the pit of her stomach. The warrants for plural marriage refusals had obviously stopped, but this was the first she'd heard of new ones being issued.

James paused, his eyes flickering between Harry and Hermione with growing hesitation as he ran his tongue across his lips, the copper twinge of blood still present. "For polygamy."

Hermione let loose a deep breath, her eyes closing as she lifted her hand to her hairline, pushing the riotous curls back from her face, nails scratching lightly at her scalp. "Great_—of course_ Minister Thicknesse would fucking do that."

"Who was it for?" Harry pressed, his brow setting, a frown beginning to pull down the corners of his lips, leaving no trace of the smile that he held only second prior.

"Ha! Actually, that's the part that's kind of bizarre." James clicked his tongue, hazel eyes drifting down to the bloodied handkerchief he still held in his hand. He lifted it to blot against his bottom lip once more. "I, uh…I never thought I'd defend a Malfoy but, uh…The warrant was for Draco, Theodore Nott, and their wife—Pansy Parkinson."

It had been a number of years since those names had come up in her day-to-day life, it wasn't exactly like they ran in the same circles now that they were freed from forced cohabitation, but the weight that they carried was no less than it had been five short years ago.

"Are you sure? _Malfoy_? As in—" Harry was the first to react, his voice ticking up with incredulity.

"As in your old classmate. I'm fairly certain there is no one else in the entirety of Britain with the same name." James dropped his hand, fingers twisting the cloth as his eyes drifted back up to his wife and son.

"Wow…Malfoy and—Well, I mean the Pansy thing is fairly predictable, but Nott?" Harry let out a low whistle, his eyes widening.

"Are you really judging him, Harry?" Hermione lifted her eyebrows, lips pursing in a look reminiscent of their former Head of House.

"What? No! I was just—I mean…" His voice trailed off, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. "It's _Malfoy_." He was hardly in a position to pass judgement considering he was in a polyamorus marriage involving his own father, Harry was very aware of this fact, but his surprise had less to do with judgement, and more to do with his contemptuous past with the blond.

"_And?_ Is he not entitled to a happy relationship with whom he loves?"

"I never said _that_."

"Well it sounds like you are implying it."

James cleared his throat, hazel eyes flickering between Harry and Hermione, the hint of a smile spread across his features. If it weren't for the large split in his bottom lip, he might've worn a toothy smile at their little spat—but he didn't much feel like opening the wound any more. "Can I finish?"

Hermione nodded, giving him a small rolling gesture. "Yes—sorry. So, you got a warrant for Malfoy and his family and said no?"

"Yes, I did, and apparently Lucien did not agree with my reasoning."

"Which was what exactly?" Hermione tilted her head to the side.

"That the Minister's sudden reversal on the polyamory law was unjust, archaic even, and perhaps before issuing warrants, we ought to discuss the possibility of amending the law to reflect a more accepting stance on those who found happiness with their plural marriages."

Harry laughed, his hand slipping from his pocket, and he pressed his fingertips to his lips as he moved to claim the small space beside his father on the table. "Merlin, I bet Lucien fucking loved that."

"Oh, yeah. I was fairly certain that vein in his forehead was going to pop." James gave a lazy gesture to his own forehead. "But…that wasn't the reason we fought. Not that it wasn't kindling to the fire. It was when he started in our marriage—specifically _you,_ Hermione."

"Oh…" Of course people were talking, it was really no surprise, but she could admit having confirmation was at least a little disheartening. Since the war's end, her public image had been blemish free, even in spite of Skeeter's hatred for her. She was beloved, a war heroine, and a witch with a bright future ahead of her. But evidently her efforts at saving Wizarding Britain didn't matter when deemed a harlot. "I don't really care what people are saying."

"Yeah? Well, I do." James set the handkerchief on the table beside him before he reached to take Hermione's hand, thumb stroking across her knuckles as he caught her eye. "You're my wife—_our_ wife—and I know I don't speak alone when I say no one is allowed to say what he did about you. I won't stand for it."

Her bottom lip quivered, and she could feel a swell of emotion burst to life inside her heart, threatening to spill over and bring forth tears. "Does this mean that you're—that you're _not _leaving me?"

"Let's make one thing clear, love, I never intended on leaving you." James was many things, thick headed, headstrong, and brash. However, despite his flaws, he had always prided himself on being true to his word. He had never intended on leaving the comfort of her orbit, especially not after being reminded of the depth of their connection. But he wanted to ensure she was safe, complying with the law now matter how stupid.

He could see now how foolish it was. He would have never been able to lie about his feelings for her—even if it was just to Ministry officials.

"But no—I'm not going anywhere. They can't force us to fill out that form, and, well, what's the worst Pius can do? Fire me?" A bitter laugh bubbled up his throat, and James gently tugged Hermione towards him until her body slipped into the narrow space between him and Harry. "An early retirement might not be so bad now that you're at home."

Hermione let out a heavy breath, her right hand moving to rest on Harry's thigh as she laced her fingers with James'. "You're daft, you know that, right?"

"Absolutely. I'm a complete and utter moron." James laughed, hazel eyes dancing behind his wire frames. "I should have defended our marriage from the beginning."

"It's okay. I was…I was upset and honestly? A total bitch. I was just scared and—"

"No. No, Hermione, you weren't." James gently squeezed her hand to emphasise his point. "You were right. This is about more than the bloody Decree, and I've spent far too long alone. I'd say I'm owed a chance to show off how bloody happy I am."

"No fucking kidding," Harry murmured. "After everything our family has gone through, you'd think Pius would be a bit more sympathetic."

"He hasn't issued our arrest warrant yet. I'm sure he considers that a great show of discretion on his part." James scoffed.

"How lucky for us." Hermione shook her head, clicking her tongue sarcastically before she leaned up, pressing a quick kiss against James' cheek, careful to avoid the blossoming purple bruise. "What do we do from here?"

"Well, I've paid bail, so I vote for getting the hell out of here." Harry slipped off the table, trainers squeaking lightly on the tiled floor as he moved behind Hermione, hooking a finger into the back belt loop of her denim trousers, playfully tugging her backwards. "You can play nursemaid. I'll even feign an injury to join in."

"Oh! I do like the sound of that." James chuckled, his fingers slipping from Hermione's grasp as he pushed off the table, wincing as he straightened his spine.

Hermione stumbled backward under the gentle tug, jaw dropping as she looked over her shoulder. "I thought you didn't have a thing for nurses."

"I don't—I've got a thing for _you_." Harry pulled her backwards until he could safely tuck her under his arm. "You gonna be able to make the trek to the floo bank, old man?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'll be fine." James rolled his head, slowly stretching out the tension that'd riddled his muscles since he'd been tossed into the holding room. "Just because I don't bounce back as quickly as you doesn't mean I'm not capable of scrapping—it's just been a couple of years."

Harry snorted. "A couple?"

"Quiet, you." James adjusted his jacket in a vain attempt at smoothing some of the wrinkles from it as he moved to the other side of Hermione. One arm curled around her waist as he slipped the other into her back pocket. "Let's just get the hell out of here. Nurse Hermione or not, I don't want to spend another bloody minute in this bloody place."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Song: We Fight by Dashboard Confessional

hey. hey. hey! Sorry for the delay last week. Not sure how many of you are readers on my other WIP, but the beta & I had some real life things come up. Regardless, we should be back on track for a 1x per week posting! I have a decent little buffer of chapters written! I know some of you are not exactly happy with James as of late, but I swear he meant well! Don't give up on the bloke yet.

many endless thanks to my team for helping me with this. Without them, I would be a mess of words on paper.

until next time. xx


	19. Chapter 19

_No one's gonna take me alive  
The time has come to make things right  
You and I must fight for our rights  
You and I must fight to survive_

* * *

Hermione struggled to remember a time when her life _wasn't_ complicated.

Even before being immersed in the magical world, there had been complications. Her gran's illness, her parents' financial struggles whilst her father finished off dental school, and their attempts to hide the little 'accidents' that seemed to plague her childhood. Disappearing toys, objects moving across the room without any explanation, and that one time all their furniture ended up on the roof.

Of course, she now knew it was a burst of accidental magic. At the time, though, there didn't seem to be a plausible explanation for their gifted child's little quirks.

Once introduced to magic, Hermione had assumed it would fix all their problems. With explanations for all of the unusual occurrences that seemed to follow her around, well, surely her life had to have been on the up and up? It was almost laughable how wrong she had been, for the story of her adolescence was now so well known there were bloody books on the subject—as in _multiple. _

_The Magical Life of Hermione Granger—The Brightest Witch of Her Age. _A rather long title for what she deemed a dreadfully boring biography.

_Harry's Muggleborn_. Even now, married to him, she still quite disliked that title. She was many things, but most certainly not anyone's property.

Her least favorite, though, had to be the collection of work Rita Skeeter put together shortly after her twentieth birthday. _How Womanhood Won The War of Potter's Heart._ It was nearly five hundred bloody pages of nonsense on how Hermione used her sexual prowess to help Harry—as if having a vagina trumped any sort of actual logic and skill she possessed.

Regardless of the awful books and articles, the fact remained the same: her life from age eleven onward was an open book—even if she hadn't wanted it to be.

Which is why, for those few short few weeks following their marriage, when she was happily married to both James and Harry, she should have known something was coming. She'd assumed they'd weathered the storm, but the truth was that they had been in the eye, blissfully unaware of the destruction and wreckage that was waiting for them.

Shortly after returning home following James' arrest, an owl arrived carrying a letter from the Minister himself. It informed James that he was released of his duties as Head of the DMLE effective immediately. No thanks was given for his years of service. No mention of his war efforts. Nothing. Just two hastily written lines and a sloppy signature.

Hermione knew James was upset, but he refused to show it. Courageous in the face of adversity like any good Gryffindor, he simply tucked the letter back in the envelope and slid it into his office drawer. No outward reaction had been given, but in the privacy of the night, when he'd assumed Harry and her were both long asleep in their marital bed, he slipped from the safety of the covers and disappeared down the hall.

She could hear the soft sound of his tears, small broken sobs echoing down the hallway from where he hid in the study, likely re-reading the apathetic dismissal from a man he'd once considered a friend.

She longed to go after him, to kiss the tears that slipped down his cheeks, nuzzle the moisture from his skin, and remind him he was more than just his job. She wanted to tell him that h was her husband, one half of the love of her life, and what they were doing, what they were _all_ doing was so much more important than any position he would ever hold within the Ministry.

But as much as she wanted to tiptoe down the hallway and comfort him, she knew he needed this moment—he needed to shed these tears.

It wasn't weakness, nor sorrow over the loss of his job. It wasn't selfishness nor the loss of his status. It wasn't even the loss of income. No, she knew the tears he shed all too well.

Frustration. Anger. _Injustice._

James was furious at what had become of the Ministry he'd dedicated his life to protecting. They'd turned their backs on him—on his _family_—after years of service. And this mistreatment ran deeper than just the three of them. Evident by the warrant that had been the catalyst for his dismissal, it appeared it was more than just the Potters who'd found happiness together. If how the Ministry's handled the first issue of the Decree was any indication, the future that awaited those who wanted to defend their polyamorous marriages was not going to be pleasant.

It had taken three days for Hermione to set aside her pride and formulate a plan—or rather, the beginnings of one.

If they were going to have any chance at preserving not only their union, but also changing the definition of marriage to not only includemulti-partner marriages, but also same-sex couples, they were going to need someone who understood the current laws in place.

James was a pureblood, familiar with ancient customs, but the Potters had always sat on the outskirts of society, considered black sheep for their acceptance and support of Muggles into magical society. Even before his first marriage, they were never considered a part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and thus, would never be able to garner support from the Wizengamot members whose votes they needed the most.

No, they needed someone with a connection. Someone who understood the culture, who could speak on their behalf and help them navigate the complexities of the political climate that felt more foreign than familiar to Hermione and both of her husbands.

This need, and the initiate competitive streak inside her that wanted nothing more than to bring Pius to his knees, fueled the fire inside her. It kept her up at night, trying to find the perfect person to help bridge the Magical and Muggle views.

Every time she looked over the list of people she knew, contacts she'd made within the Ministry, friends, family and business associates, she always came back to one name.

One particular person who she swore she would never speak to again.

One person whose family name still made her straighten her spine and prickled the skin on the back of her neck with unease.

"Granger."

Hermione lifted her eyes from the cup of black tea in front of her, milky ribbons still rolling through the almost black liquid. It had been ages—at least four, maybe five years—since she'd seen him last, but even now, she recognized that thatch of platinum hair.

"Malfoy."

Pushing up from the table, she brushed her hand across the outside of her thigh, hoping to pull the moisture from her palm before she extended her hand towards him.

Grey eyes flickered between her extended hand and her face, as if stuck in some debate about the propriety of touching her, and for half a moment, she wondered if he was going to decline. She couldn't blame him, the only other time they'd ever actually _touched_ had been third year when she'd slapped him. But still, years had passed, the world was changing, and surely he was beyond that… Wasn't he?

Lifting his hand from his trouser pocket, long fingers curled around her palm and he gave her a firm handshake that felt much too clinical. His head inclined ever so slightly in a silent greeting, and just as quickly as his hand found hers, he pulled back.

"Thank you for meeting me. I've ordered a pot of Earl Gray and some scones if you're peckish." Hermione returned to her seat, hands smoothing across her abdomen, trying to pull the wrinkles from her blouse.

"I don't make a habit of eating with potential clients." Draco unbuttoned the single button on his blazer, pulling the sides of his sport coat open as he claimed the seat across from her. "I would say I was surprised to receive your owl, but word travels fast. Despite my _obvious_ elation at your humility, I am going to warn you that even with all the gold in the Potters' vaults, I'm not sure you'll be able to afford my services."

After the trials that succeeded the war's end, the only living Malfoy had gone into hiding of sorts. His name vanished from the papers, no mention of his comings and goings, no pictures depicting the pointy blond hiding from paparazzi—avoiding reporters by ducking into shops. He had fallen completely off the radar, only to resurface two years ago when he opened his firm.

From what the articles had said, he'd used his solitude to further his education with a focus on Magical Law. He spent time in the Americas—both northern and southern—studying legal proceedings under the best lawyers in all of the Magical world.

His specialty laid in criminal trials, often defending celebrities and Pureblood families from sentences in Azkaban, and thus, he was able to charge obscene rates to make up for the pro bono cases his firm took on. It seemed, from what Hermione could tell, he was using his budding legal team as a means of reparation for the years of damage his family had done.

It seemed admirable, his charity work and activism in the Magical world, but then again, he was still a Malfoy, and surely everything came at some sort of price.

"Oh, I have no intention of paying for your services." Hermione picked up her steaming mug, taking a slow sip of her tea, and watching as Malfoy bristled across from her. His eyes flickered with mild interest and something akin to incredulity. The porcelain tinked softly against the glass top as she set her mug back down on the table. She lifted her hand to silence him before he could begin to protest. "Rather, I was hoping this particular business venture might be mutually beneficial. Maybe even beneficial enough for you to work for free."

She could see him stiffen, the thick muscle that ran the length of his jaw tightening as his eyes narrowed. He was trying to read her, find the hidden meaning in her words. She had spent a number of years on the opposite side of that critical stare, but much to her surprise, now it did not cause the same feelings of ill-contempt.

Perhaps it was age.

Or maybe knowing she had the upper hand.

Whatever the case may be, she leaned back in her chair with a smug smile lifting the corners of her lips, her eyebrow cocking in silent challenge.

"Why on Earth would I ever do that?" Draco shifted in his chair, long legs crossing over one another. He reached out to pluck a scone from the plate, snapping the corner piece off before popping it into his mouth.

"Because I know about your family's reluctance to dissolve your marriage."

If looks could kill, Hermione was certain the snap judgement that cut through his gaze would have eviscerated her. The scone betwixt his fingers crumbled over the table as his fingers instinctively flexed. "You don't know the first thing—"

"Actually, I do." Hermione lifted her hand as she interrupted him. Waving her hand over the mess he'd made, the confection vanished. She scooted closer to plant her elbows on the table, leaning in so her words didn't carry beyond the safety of their table. "Malfoy, I did not ask you here to pass judgement. On the contrary, I came to offer my support. I am not sure how your family intends on handling the amendment with the Decree, but it should be no surprise that we—my husbands and I—intend to fight it."

"Our intentions are none of your, _or_ the Ministry's business." Draco brushed the stray crumbs off his trousers, grey eyes still storming with malice behind long blond lashes.

"I don't disagree. I was just hoping you all might—"

"Might what? Come out publicly in support? Become a part of Hermione Granger's next charity case?" Scoffing, he clenched his jaw, indignation rippling off his person, filling the tiny space that separated him with the sharp sizzle of magic. "Not all of us are afforded the luxury of being able to speak out against the Ministry. We're not all bloody war heroes. Some of us were the villains."

"I would never ask anything that compromised the terms of your…your…" The word felt thick of her tongue, heavy and foreboding—even now. It was still strange to think that the man she sat across from bore the mark of a group that hated the very existence of her kind. But she had to remind herself that his involvement in their cause, although not slight, _was _forced.

He was just a child when it all began.

No different than Harry.

No different than herself.

"My parole," Draco finished for her, tongue sliding across his lips.

"Yes. Your parole. Look, Malfoy, just...just let me show you something, okay?" She was already moving, bending to snatch her bag off the ground, when his protests began. She knew this meeting was a long shot. He was the best private barrister Galleons could buy, and frankly, the history than ran between the two families was almost as murky as the Capulets and Montagues.

The Malfoy-Potter feud began decades before either Draco or Harry were born, and it was evident they made no effort to ease the tension between the two ancient households.

Opening her beaded bag, she ignored his thinly veiled protests and withdrew the thick file she'd composed over the last forty-eight hours before setting it in front of him.

"What is that?" Draco didn't touch the manila folder. Instead, he opted to narrow his eyes on his, a sneer lifting the corner of his lips as if its mere presence had personally offended him.

"That is just the beginning of our case. I still have some more text to review, but I'd say it's a solid start." Clearing her throat, Hermione shot a quick glance over each shoulder before picking up her wand off the table and casting a _Muffiato_ over their table. "That is the history of non-monogamous marriages in the Wizarding World. Strangely enough, it also seems to correlate with same-sex marriages. The history of what I've cataloged as non-traditional marriages is actually quite extensive within the Wizarding World—far more in-depth and accepted than that in with Muggle history—but that's not really important…_yet."_

Reaching over the teapot, she flipped open the folder, awkwardly shuffling through the parchment copies she'd made until she found the document in question. "This is the first iteration of _The Magical Marriage Act of 1621_."

"I am familiar with the law, Granger."

"Yes, but—" Sliding the document over, she began to uncover copies of periodicals printed during the year of the law's implementation. Moving each of them across the table, she began to cover every inch of available surface in front of the blond. "Look at these articles. None of them call forth the law being problematic due to the nature of the plural marriage, only the issue with the Ministry _choosing_ their intended. Which I found exceedingly odd until I pulled a copy of the marital law in force during that time. It was implemented more than fifty years before that back in 1550."

She shuffled through the stack once more, pushing papers about until she found the right copy and tugged it from the stack. "Not only is there no law prohibiting plural marriage, but there are literally regulations regarding how many spouses a single person can have—regardless of sex or ethnicity."

Draco's brows furrowed, grey eyes flickering between the pages before he slowly leaned forward to pick up one of the news articles. She could see the gears inside his mind churn to life, the slow flicker of acknowledgment of what this could mean followed by the spark of curiosity.

"Malfoy, this is just the beginning. From what I can gather, the institution of one wizard to witch marriage was introduced around the same time Christianity flourished in the United Kingdom. We literally changed our laws to reflect a more conservative stance in line with that of the Muggle population. If…if you're willing to help, we could go in front of the Wizengamot and show them unequivocal proof that what we are proposing is not some… some fetish, but rather something so deeply ingrained in the history of Magic—"

Draco lifted his hand to silence her, eyes slicing over the top of the parchment, halting her words. He picked up page after page, examining each with a level of scrutiny she was all too familiar with after spending years alongside him in Scotland.

Biting her bottom lip, Hermione willed herself into silence. She watched as his index finger glided across the parchment. His eyes widened when he came across a key word or phrase and then he tapped his bottom lip in thought before picking up a new piece of evidence from the table.

It was tortuous watching him slowly absorb the content she'd painstakingly spent the better part of two days collecting.

Worse was her complete inability to read his thoughts.

She could tell he was curious, intrigued by the history she'd uncovered in her one-woman quest to defend her marriage, but his interest did not necessarily translate to him being willing to help her fight the single source of power that ran their world.

"So…Will you do it?"

She broke the silence after what felt like an entity, and the maroon polish that had perfectly covered her fingernails was now in bits, scattered across her thighs as she nervously picked at her nails.

Draco glanced up, a momentary look of shock colouring his eyes as if he'd forgotten she was sitting across from him, waiting eagerly for a response. A small, unreadable noise slipped from his throat as he straightened his spine, adjusting his seat in the chair before he began to collect the papers and slide them back into the manila folder.

She could feel her heart sink as she watched him pick up the mess she'd made, and while she knew Malfoy was not the end-all-be-all in terms of private barristers, she had hoped his own personal interest in the case might be enough to give them an advantage when taking on the Wizengamot.

She was a war hero, as were both of her husbands, but when it came to the pureblood families that ran their government, well…The Potter name only held so much clout.

He closed the file, long fingers resting on its cover for half a second too long, before he rose from the chair, moving to button his sport coat "If we're going to have any sort of chance at this, which I doubt we will, but _if_ we have a shot at convincing them, we're going to need to find others willing to stand with us—preferably not children of any former Death Eaters."

The lump in her chest fell into her stomach, the hope that had felt like it was slipping through her fingers returned, filling her body and soul until she could feel the excitement slip from her pores and fill their little corner of the café with her magic. "You'll help?"

"I'll do what I can." He picked up the file, tucking it under his arm. "No promises—especially if we cannot find others."

"Don't worry about that!" Hermione stood up quickly, her chair screeching across the tile floor in her haste. "I'll find others."

"You better." His tongue ran across his teeth, grey eyes flickering over her face, apathy masking his own emotions, but she could tell, even from a distance, that there was something glimmering in the silver flecks of his eyes. Hope.

"I'll be in touch." With a single nod of his head, Draco turned from her, his loafers purposefully snapping against the floor.

She began to ease back into her seat, a smile stretching wide across her lips, as she allowed that four letter emotion that shone in his gaze to fill her. They had a chance. With his help, she was almost certain they would be able to do this.

"Oh…Granger."

Hermione pulled her eyes up from where she'd lost focus on the table, turning her chair to find him lingering just a few steps away. "Yes?"

"Thank you." Those were two words she was almost certain she'd never heard him utter. Even now, after watching them slip off his tongue, she wondered if she's misheard him through the ambient nose of the café.

Her brow furrowed, nose wrinkling just slightly as she cocked her head to the side. "What?"

"Thank you…" The words hung idly between them. "For doing what you did. Standing up against the Amendment. Reading about it is what gave us the courage to fight back. We figured if you lot could do it, then members of a proper house could as well."

A nervous laugh bubbled up her throat, brows slowly creeping up her forehead in surprise as she watched him shift uncomfortably between the balls of his feet. While pride was an obvious Malfoy trait, it appeared showing gratitude was still something he struggled with after all these years.

"Oh. Uh…you're welcome?"

No verbal response was given, just a single dip of his head, his eyes closing in time, as if to silently portray his appreciation for her efforts. He spun on his heel, making a quick escape from the bustling café, leaving her sitting at the table feeling equal parts excitement and confusion.

She knew she couldn't linger long. She had people to contact, ancient law to research, and husbands to inform of the latest updates in their fight. But she was going to allow herself just a moment—a few precious minutes—to bask in the blissful hope of what could be. She knew that while fighting the Ministry these moments of tranquility were going to be few and far between.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Hey! it's been a while. /hides in shame

I hope you don't hate the wait, my muse went cold and only recently has decided to show her face. I have a couple chapter buffer, far less than I would like to but I didn't want to keep you waiting even a second longer.

until next time. xx

Song: Knights of Cyndonia by Muse


	20. Chapter 20

_Oh, my love, my darling  
I've hungered for your touch  
A long, lonely time  
Time goes by so slowly  
And time can do so much  
Are you still mine?_

* * *

Fourteen days.

It was the longest James had been unemployed since he was eighteen. Even when he'd left Hogwarts, he had his job with the DMLE lined up. He went straight from one bureaucratic establishment to another, and he'd always found purpose in staying busy—keeping his mind sharp.

During the first war, when he took his leave of absence from the Ministry following Lily's death, he'd had things to keep him busy: The Order, raising Harry, and trying to plan a bloody funeral. That month had felt like it passed in two days by the time he strolled back into the office with a renewed sense of purpose.

But now?

Now he had… nothing.

Well, not _nothing,_ but certainly not the same things he'd had just weeks before.

No job. No Dark Wizard to vanquish. No kid to keep alive.

His life was decidedly normal—not counting the whole plural marriage bit, of course. But regardless, he had nothing to occupy his mind.

He'd tried helping Hermione with her research, but found himself woefully unprepared for the hurricane that was her mid-revision mind. He'd corresponded with the youngest Malfoy, per her request, and knobbed around on his broomstick with Harry to pass the time.

But he was… bored.

And frankly? Bloody depressed.

His vaults were filled with gold. He had a beautiful wife, a loving marriage, and every bit of happiness life could afford him. He should've been singing from the rooftops, enjoying this temporary break from the monotony of the day-to-day grind at the Ministry, but he couldn't pull himself out of his funk.

He felt useless.

Which is how he found himself day drinking on a Wednesday afternoon in his office. He hadn't gone in with the intention of indulging so early. In fact, he'd had plans to review the Decree case files he'd swiped prior to his abrupt departure from the DMLE per Hermione and baby Malfoy's request, but the single cask firewhisky glimmering from across his study was far too alluring to ignore.

Lifting the crystalline tumbler to his lips, James took a slow sip of the aged spirit, letting the burn trickle down his throat as he scanned one of the final reports he'd planned on giving Pius.

Pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth, he savoured the burn as the spirit settled in his stomach. He was far from pissed, but there was definitely a good midday buzz helping him through his strange swirl of emotions.

He was mad—right furious was more like it—about his dismissal. After all the work he'd done for both the Ministry and Pius himself, to be let go felt like a slap in the face.

Yet, on the other hand, he was almost relieved not to have to deal with the bureaucracy anymore. No more endless meetings. No more signing off warrants he didn't agree with. No more keeping his mouth shut for the sake of not angering the figurehead of their world.

He could do precisely _what _he wanted, _when _he wanted, without having to ask permission or follow orders.

"James, are you drinking?"

His eyes darted up from the parchment, tumbler still firmly in his grasp, to find his wife leaning on the doorframe of his study, a coy smile pulling up her beautiful lips.

The amount of hours he'd spent fantasizing about that mouth of hers should be criminal, he should've felt embarrassed about considering how far back _those_ wayward daydreams went, but seeing her standing there, in that cream colored sweater dress… Merlin, help him.

"Maybe."

"It's not even noon." Pushing off the doorframe, her bare feet snapped against the hardwood of his office as she moved over the threshold. Reaching back, she pressed gently on the door with just the tips of her fingers, encouraging it to float closed behind her as she moved towards the desk. "You feeling okay?"

Hermione knew he was struggling, it didn't take a medical degree for her to know he felt complacent. He went from literally running arguably the busiest department in the Ministry to being unemployed—and _unemployable_—in a matter of hours. Their story was already hitting the new stands.

_Perverted Potters._

_When Marriage Law's Turn Foul._

_Golden Girl Turned Slag._

She was used to the public's scorn, but James? Well, this was his first time experiencing the spotlight's cruel shine.

"As well as can be expected," he answered honestly, swirling the last finger's worth of firewhisky around his glass before he leaned forward to set it down on his desk. He lifted his hand towards her. "But better now that you're here."

Reaching out, her fingers laced with his, and Hermione allowed James to guide her around his desk. With a gentle tug, she found a seat in his lap. Almost immediately, she could feel his magic brush against hers, like a timid cat, winding its way around her soul in soft easy arches, encouraging her own to come out and play.

Sliding her hand free of his, she brushed her fingers through the soft mess of curls on the side of his head. He was in desperate need of a haircut. She honestly couldn't ever remember ever seeing his hair this length, and likely for good reason. It was always unruly at best, but now it looked positively wild. "Anything I can do to help?"

James wound his arms around her middle, fingers stroking reverently along her lower back as he pulled her closer. His nose ran across her shoulder, nuzzling softly at her collarbone, before he settled into what she was beginning to suspect was a favoured spot of his.

His face was tucked into the crook of her neck, hidden behind the wall of curls, enveloped by the one scent that was able to calm him almost instantly. She smelt like a spring garden, fresh air, and something he couldn't quite place, but he associated it with hope. Like the smell of dew clinging to the grass on the Quidditch pitch early in the morning. Like the world was his for the taking and all he had to do was reach for it.

He wondered if he could bottle her scent, or at least find a replica, and keep it with him to serve as a reminder of her love—something he still wondered if he was worthy of.

He'd almost ruined everything because of his dedication to the Ministry, and like the glutton for punishment he was, he was mourning not having it in his life—even though they clearly no longer wanted him.

"Just keep being yourself." His lips ghosted across the sensitive skin on her neck, breath tickling down her chest, dipping beneath the scooped neckline of her dress. Her arms wound around his shoulders, elbows resting gently on his upper back as she sunk her fingers into his hair. Her nails scratched at his scalp affectionately as she pulled him into a tight embrace, letting her magic open and blossom against his—encouraging him to be open and honest with her, even if he couldn't verbalize his emotions.

They stayed like that for a few long moments, letting their magic say what they couldn't.

Hermione knew his sorrow wasn't directed at what their relationship represented, but she couldn't very well call him out for moping about their home for the past two weeks. It would do zero good in building his confidence, and likely only make him feel worse for being so upset.

So instead, she'd tried to give him tasks.

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But it seemed her plans of giving him purpose had backfired. She'd only managed to make him feel like a bloody task rabbit instead of a partner in their cause, fighting for the freedom to love whomever they choose.

"I'm so proud of you, Hermione."

He was proud of her? While some small part of her was overjoyed at his praise, the rational side struggled to find the context. For what? For bringing unwanted attention to their family? For costing them all their jobs? For being unable to pick between Harry and him?

From where she stood, she was the root cause of his problems—the very epicenter of all things that were wrong in his word.

Her hands moved over the thick expanse of his shoulders, and with a gentle push, she leaned him back in the chair until she could catch his eyes. "Why?" Her tongue darted across her lips before she sucked her bottom lip between her teeth.

James stayed silent, but she could see his mind move, working to come up with the perfect words to describe his meaning, but each passing moment brought forth a small layer of anxiety. What if this was it—the moment he'd realised she wasn't worth it? The moment he saw her love for both him and his son as too much?

"Because you're so brave. Far braver than I could have ever been." His thumbs stroked patterns across her hips, fingers sliding across the softness of her sweater dress as he spoke. "Hermione, you've always been smart, and beautiful, and brave and… and truthfully, far too good to hang out with the likes of me _or _my son—"

"Not true!"

His chin tipped down, hazel eyes peering at her over the rim of his glasses, silencing her with a stern look before continuing. "You weren't afraid to stand up for what you believe in, despite knowing it wasn't going to be received well. You were brave where I was cowardly and...I'm just proud." His right hand rose, the rough pads of his fingers stroking her jawline as he moved to cup her face. "Proud to stand with you. Proud to call you mine."

If it were possible, Hermione could feel herself falling more in love with the man who sat before her. He was honest, admitting his faults, open, and kind. She'd always fancied James, but every day since they'd wed he reminded her precisely why she loved him.

She didn't bother to reply verbally. There was absolutely no way she would ever be able to put the way she felt into words. Instead, she leaned down, nose nudging against his until his head tipped back enough for their lips to find each other.

Her magic poured from her, every ounce of her soul leaving and beckoning to twist with his. She wanted to feel whole, to feel the parts of his magic deep within hers, and in turn, provide him that same sense of completion.

Her hands moved across the planes of his chest, fingers sliding over the hard muscles that lay beneath the thin layer of clothing until she could rest her hands against his neck, thumbs stroking his stubbled jaw as her tongue brushed his bottom lip, begging for entrance.

Tightening his hands, already curled around her waist, his fingers dug into her hips as they lost themselves to the consuming emotions that flowed between them.

Devotion. Acceptance. Forgiveness. Support. _Love._

He needed this—this physical reminder that she loved him. For now, for always. That she would never part from him. That she would fight until they took the very breath from her lungs to belong to not just him, but Harry as well. This home they'd built—the unconventional family—was exactly what they _all _needed.

Tragedy had befallen each of them already in their short lives.

James: his wife and best friend.

Harry: his mum and eventually his own life.

Hermione: countless friends and her parents.

And yet, somehow, through the darkness of growing up during a war, witnessing death, torture, and destruction, they'd found happiness on the other end.

Like a silver lining on a storm cloud, they'd found reason through the madness that was the years following the war, and now they had each other. For support, for comfort, for love.

Hermione twisted in his lap, not daring to pull her lips from his as she shifted until she straddled his thighs, the hem of her sweater dress sliding up until she could feel the brush of his palms against her bare skin.

His nails scratched lightly against her outer thighs on their quest up to her hips where he plucked gently at the pair of sensible nude knickers she'd selected this morning. She could feel his magic tickle against her skin, emanating from every inch. It felt like an electrical current, sizzling as he coursed into her bloodstream, fueling their already wayward snog.

"James," she rasped against his lips, hips arching forward until she could feel the distinct bulge of his manhood through his trousers. An unbidden whimper tumbled off her tongue, the embers of desire licking higher and higher until she wasn't sure she could think about anything other than having him inside her.

Down her jaw and across her neck, his lips kissed, nibbling, and licked every section of her skin they could reach. Curls tumbled over her shoulders, cascading down in waves as she arched into his mouth, desperate to feel as much of him as she could.

Her hands moved down his chest, fingers spread wide to contour over the hard muscles twitching with tension beneath his layers until she found his hips and cold metal brushed against the tips of her fingers.

She unthreaded his belt quickly and unbuttoned his trousers before lowering his zip. She could see the strain of his erection through his shorts, pulling the dark cotton taut. Nimble fingers eased the elastic band wide before her hand slipped inside, curling around his length.

"_Fuck."_ James' forehead fell to her shoulder, his breath washing over her skin, tickling down the stretched neckline of her dress as he lifted his hips to grind against her touch.

Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip, eyes drifting shut as she listened to his soft pants, and the primal groans of pleasure she pulled from him. With each stroke, she could feel his body tremble beneath her fingertips, and that alone was powerful enough to send her inner goddess afloat, but it was the way that his magic moved into her that truly fogged her mind.

Fluid, caressing, fulfilling.

He filled her until she wasn't sure there was an ounce of space that remained where his magic hadn't been. From the top of her head to the tips of her toes, she knew, without a shred of doubt, that James was acquainted with every single part of her body—physically and spiritually and loved it still.

Despite her flaws.

Despite being headstrong and outspoken.

He loved her, not in spite of her flaws, but because of them.

"James…_please_." Her voice quivered, shaking with a need that physically manifested the closeness she felt for him.

Slowly, his eyes opened to reveal blown pupils, dark, consuming, endless voids swirling with desire and devotion. His fingers curled into the soft fabric of her knickers, tugging them lightly away from her body. _Evanesco._ The incantation slipped off his tongue in a breath of a whisper, and a rush of cold air spread across the most intimate part of her body.

His fingers dug into the soft flesh at her hips as he yanked her closer until her breasts brushed against his chest. Withdrawing his manhood from his trousers, she pushed his trunks lower until his cock stood fully erect between them.

Angling himself, Hermione used his shoulder for support, tilting her hips up until she could brush him through the sodden curls at the apex of her thighs. It had been too long since they'd done this dance, far longer than she'd realised until that very moment—until she heard the primal need taint his voice as he whispered her name into the quiet of his study.

Life had been busy, first work, then working with Malfoy. By the time she finally crawled into bed at the end of every day, she was typically fast asleep within seconds. It wasn't that she didn't want to share those intimate moments with them, but she'd been too busy—too consumed by her need to defend their love.

Admittedly, she was exhausted. So bloody tired.

But it was more clear than ever before that they both _needed _this—this confirmation of their desire for one another. James craved physical touch to center himself, to find his purpose, and she was all too eager to provide exactly what her husband needed.

Inch by excruciating inch, all of the air left her lungs as his manhood filled her in ways she'd forgotten. She felt full, tight, brimming, unable to take even an ounce more, but still she sank until their hips met.

Her breath struggled to fill her lungs and she trembled as she felt his hands move over her hips and down her backside to curl against the globes of her arse.

Her lips found his once more as she set their rhythm with a slow and steady roll of her hips. The gentle rise and fall focused more on the act of being close with the man she loved than finding a quick release. Each time his manhood eased from her body, she didn't feel empty or hurried to have him fill her once more.

No, his magic was coursing through her, bringing her closer to him than she ever thought possible. She'd only read about love like she had with James and Harry in books, and even then, she hardly believed it possible, but as they moved together as one, clinging to one another, drawing out their pleasure at the leisurely pace that felt almost sinful for an afternoon romp in his study, she couldn't imagine giving this up.

Her end drew closer, that tightening low in her abdomen, the toe curling, body trembling demise that she felt just on the precipice of. She was seconds, mere seconds, away from finding her bliss, and she could barely breathe when it finally crested and swallowed her whole.

Her entire body quaked with unrepressed energy, slipping from every pore, exuding from the very centre of her being, as she sighed against his lips. She didn't cry out nor shout to the heavens. Instead, his name slipped off her tongue, like the melody of her favorite song, over and over. She spoke of her love for him, of how amazing he was, of how they were meant to be. Her fingers curled tightly against his shoulders, nails leaving half moons in the thick ropes of muscle, as she rode out the drudging waves of her orgasm, coaxing him, beckoning him to follow.

In the end, it only took minutes more, his hands lifting her hips for her when her thighs became too weak, and when he spilled his seed deep inside her body, when his magic melded with her own, she felt an overwhelming sense of wholeness.

He was hers.

She was his.

But more, they were family. Destined to find one another.

She wasn't even sure how it happened, but one minute her lips were on his, and the next Jame had her curled against his chest, the steady thump of his heart beat tattooing her cheek. His hands ran up and down her spine, acting as a metronome she had unwittingly matched her breath to.

She knew she still had work to do, her visit to the study was supposed to be brief, but she found herself no longer in a hurry to delve back into the stacks of books and countless letters Malfoy had sent to her. After all _this_ was what she was fighting for, she need to make the time to enjoy it for as long as it lasted.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

_Song: Unchained Melody by Righteous Brothers_

/awkwardly wrings hands

heeey. so i absolutely have not forgotten about this fic, i'm not sure my super amazing beta, **dreamsofdramione**, would allow me. i have a couple chapters pre-written but i have delayed releasing them because my muse for this story is waining-mainly due to the current state of the world. we are about to get into some pretty heavy content with this fic and having something emotionally exhausting just hurts my head. i am **not** abandoning this fic, but rather will be officially putting this on hiatus. i will post chapters on occasion, as the muse allows it, so if you see the occasional update know that my muse is playing nicely.

thanks for understanding, and i hope you all check out my other stories!

until next time. xx

find me on facebook under msmerlin eff!


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